Mihatenu Yume (Unfinished Dream)
by Firen
Summary: Begins at Chronicles' end. Ashuram, brought back to life by Soul Crusher, is at the mercy of fate - or so he believes. Will the Black Knight turn to vengeance when he discovers just who is behind his role as Bearer for the Demon Sword? NEW CHAPTER!
1. Awakening

Hello!  Welcome back to Lodoss.  We begin where the last episode of the OAV left poor Ashuram, pretty much destroyed beneath Marmo island, killed by the crazy mage Wagnard....or so you thought!  This has nothing at all to do with the new story line in the TV series!  Feh...  Nor the Legend of Chrysania. Anyway.  Of course, Ashuram , Pirotess, and co. are certainly not mine, only the story is.  Lodoss isn't mine either.  Darn.

Enjoy! ^-^

                                                                                ****Chapter One: Awakening

Darkness.

One breath.

Another, uneven and weak.

The pause between breaths seemed interminable, and his ears ached for sound in the absolute absence of it.  The distant rasp of air hissing though his teeth relieved the ringing in his ears briefly before the deep silence fell again.

Consciousness was a tenuous thing, separated from dreams by an elusive, twilight threshold.  He slipped in and out of it helplessly, his thoughts vague and half-formed.  Dim colors came and went against the backs of his eyelids, drifting across his mind's eye lazily.

He dreamed.

Faces came and went before him slowly, familiar and unfamiliar alike.  Lord Beld's ugly, leathered face he recognized, surrounded with its lion's mane of golden hair.  The proud arrogance in the narrow eyes overshadowed by unruly brows and separated by a fierce, jutting beak of a nose seemed smug somehow, full of cynical irony.

The young Knight from Valis he also recognized, face earnest and eyes yet dull with unformed youth, holding both Soul Crusher and King Fahn's sword above his head.  They came and went.   His awareness flickered dimly and subsided again.

The pale face of Khardis' pet mage appeared before him.  Wagnard.  His eyes burned red with the utter possession he had given himself up to, shocking in a face gone pale and haggard with feeding the carnivorous power housed inside his bony, tall frame.  His grin was missing teeth, split into bloody halves that  seemed to be held together only by willpower.  Wagnard's horrible, high laugh filled his ears, and his body flinched in reaction.

The rustle of his skin against the armor that encased him like a shell might as well have been thunder in the heavy silence that blanketed him.  It startled him out of dreams for a brief moment, and in the darkness he felt his heart beating painfully in his chest.

Time flowed strangely, passing around him without seeming to take notice.  He lost track of how many breaths had filled his lungs and been pushed out again.  He floated back into dreams.

_This time._

This time, it was her face he saw before him.  The clarity of his vision was almost  painful, each detail of her face in perfect resolution.  She was so beautiful it hurt him, filled him with a melancholy so sharp he could taste it, bitterly, on his tongue.

"Pirotess," he sighed, although whether he spoke her name out loud or not, even he did not know.

"Lord Ashuram."  He seemed to hear his name being called from far away, in her low, velvet voice.  "Lord Ashuram."

He found himself looking down into a bronze face that seemed to glimmer softly of its own wan light.  Pirotess.  Dark amber eyes looked up at him with that same smoldering  intensity he knew so well, always as though she was holding a little something of herself in tight restraint whenever she looked at him.  The small mouth was bent up at one corner in an ironic smile.  Silver hair fell unbound past her shoulders, the long pointed ears that were one of the most distinguishing features of her kind hung with small, pale gold rings.

"Pirotess," he said again, almost a question.  He was unsurprised to see her here as he had been unsurprised at the other faces that came and went in his mind, although the sight of her moved him far more.

"Yes," she replied, her voice shivering in his ears, low and soft.  "It's I."

He stared at her, as if afraid she would melt away before his eyes.

"I'm dreaming," he stated.  The Dark Elf nodded.

"You do dream, my lord," she affirmed.

"I am dying," he said bluntly, sounding markedly unaffected by the prospect.  Pirotess shrugged gracefully, shadows shifting across her dark skin.

"You are on the threshold," she said.  "Else we could not meet like this."

He gave her a thin-lipped smile, nodding.

"I am ready," he said.  "I follow you."  Her mouth curved into a small smile, and she shook her head.

"You cannot come to that place yet," she said.  "You yet breathe, my lord."

"Pirotess," he said again, very quietly, his deep voice a low burr.  "I would follow you."

"I know," she replied, the shadows around her mouth deepening in a small, melancholy smile.

He reached out a hand to her, the desire to touch her face almost overpowering, but stopped himself.  Even in this place, something held him back.  He wondered if his hand would pass right through her as if she were smoke, and the thought was unbearable.  His pale fingers hung in the distance between them briefly before he let his hand fall.

"How do I come...to be able to meet with you here?" He asked.

"Do you know where you are, my lord?" Pirotess asked him, stepping closer to him.  "Your body lies in the very depths of Wagnard's shrine to his crumbled Goddess.  Soon it will be a sunken stone ruin."

He had not forgotten, exactly, but now he remembered the circumstances beyond this twilight consciousness, and nodded slowly as it came back to him.

"I should be dead," he said in disbelief.  "This is surely the creation of a dying mind.  Wagnard..."  Pirotess took his hands gently and the wonder of it was that he could feel her skin, soft and warm, against his own.

"My lord, Wagnard did deal you a mortal blow," she said.  "Yet you still live.  Something stands between you and the Forever Dreaming."  He took her hands and drew them up, pressed against his heart.

"Ah," he breathed, at last moved beyond his customary coolness.  "You?  Pirotess....have you saved me again?"  She shook her head slowly, smiling self deprecatingly.

"No, my lord, it was not I.  This smells...of something darker.  I sense the Demon Sword at work.  It is that which has spared you."

"Spared me," he repeated, in a barely audible rasp.  "It seems no one will let me die."  He gave her a thin smile, but the pain that came with the sudden memory of watching her shield him from Shooting Star's deadly fire was too much even for his stoic nature, and he closed his eyes against it.

"You are too important," she replied, and there was no regret in her voice.  " My lord, you are the Sword Bearer."  He opened his eyes and gave her a calculating gaze.

"No longer," he said abruptly.  "The Knight from Valis carries it now."

"Be that as it may," Pirotess said, dismissing Parn with a contained wave of her hand.  "He is not the true Bearer.  SoulCrusher may have changed hands, but you still carry that power in you.  Perhaps that is what has saved you, in the end.  You are still bound to the sword.  It is bound to you, and it needs a Bearer."

"It failed to save Lord Beld when he wielded it,"  he pointed out, remembering the lance that had come from nowhere to impale the Dark Emperor where he stood, like a flash of lightening bringing down a great old tree.

"He was not suitable," she replied, almost as though it should be obvious to him.  Perhaps to her, it was.  Elves saw things that humans didn't.

"Do you tell me that the sword has possessed me?" Ashuram asked, fine black brows drawn into a frown.  "I fought the Demon.  I won."

"I cannot say, my lord," The Dark-Elf replied, frowning in turn, looking puzzled.  "Only some things are clear to me.  Whether it possesses you or you possess it, the sword saved you because you are the Bearer."

"Will it drag me back from death forever?" He said, cool voice skeptical.  Pirotess' fingers moved slightly in his tight grasp, turning to grip his hands strongly.

" I do not know, my lord," she admitted again, "although I suspect that it might be the case until a new Bearer is found.  There can be no imbalance between the two swords."

"That sounds like something the Grey Witch would say," he replied evenly, with no rancor for all the dislike he had carried for Karla.

"Perhaps," Pirotess replied.

He gave her a gaze that looked cold and distant, and then warmth sparked to life  in his dark eyes and he smiled, thinly.  The warmth in his eyes saved it from becoming his customary indifferent smirk.

"You...you came to me in this place..." he said, bring one of her hands up to his face and cradling it between palm and cheek gently.  "...to tell me all of that, and....I thank you."  The weight of how much it meant to him gathered between them, words he had never been able to say before to her.  He looked down at her, her hair and eyes bright in the gloom.

Before she could stop him, he quickly stepped forward and gathered her into his arms with an almost violent intensity, circling her waist and drawing her against him.  Her arms wrapped gently around the back of his neck as he buried his face in her hair.

"Pirotess," he said in a rough whisper.  "Pirotess, that which we have never spoken-"

"Shh," she replied, a warm breath in his ear.  She stroked his hair with soft fingers, soothing him.  "My lord, Elves know many things which are left unspoken.  It is one of our talents."  He held her tightly to him for a moment more, then relaxed and stepped back just far enough so that he could look down into her catlike amber eyes.

"Why?" He asked, and now his voice was uneven and throaty with emotion that he kept under taut control. His grip on her shoulders was tense, demanding.  "Why did you do it?"

He could still see the flames all around them, parting at her slender, bronze body  as water parts around a rock, the fire licking on either side of her but missing him completely.  He remembered holding her limp body to him as she struggled to breath her last, slipping away from him before he could speak to her what he had just come to realize as he had reached to save her from falling from the cliff in Shooting Star's lair.

She looked at him, the hint of a smile deepening the corners of her mouth.

"You know why," she said very deliberately, and reached a hand up to smooth his brow with cool, gentle fingers.  She looked past him suddenly, and then found his gaze again.

"There is not much time," she said: a warning.  "Soon you will have to leave this place."

"I know," he said, not taking his gaze from her face, as if he could memorize her every feature.  "I know this is a dream.  I don't want...to leave...you."  Even in this place, even now, it was so very difficult for him to say.

"You must," she said.  "Your body lays now in Marmo's tomb, which is crumbling slowly even as we speak together.  You must escape, or you will be lost under the island."

"One tomb is as good as another," he said.  Pirotess shook her head.

"My lord," she said, "I'll be waiting for you.  But now you must leave here.  You must live." She wore an odd expression, a softness he was not used to seeing, and something else, a sadness that he felt mirrored his own melancholy.  Silver had gathered in the corners of her eyes and she blinked it away.  She took a step back from him.  He reached for her hands and caught them, trying to keep her from retreating any further.

"You must live, or otherwise my...otherwise my saving you will have been in vain," she said, looking away.  He could say nothing to that, and she looked up at him again.  "Lord Ashuram, you must wake up," she said with regret.  "You have to reach the surface.  You have to awaken."

"Pirotess," he said, and the word was steeped in sadness.  She bowed her head.

"I'll be here, always, and someday, should you still wish it, you will come to this place and not have to leave it."  She was stepping back from him, sliding out of his grasp like smoke.  The shadows reached up to claim her again.

"Wake, my lord," she said, half hidden by shadows, her voice commanding.  The strength of it rang in his ears.  "Go from this place.  Live.  Wake, and remember me."

…if you liked it please tell me what you think!  Thanks! ^-^;


	2. Only Your Shadow As A Companion

He woke to full awareness suddenly in the dark, gasping with the abrupt intensity of finding himself back in his body

Ahem… further disclamation: The title of this chapter and the poem quoted somewhere in the middle are from an old poem called "Lamentation" by Monk Gusai.  As always, Ashuram and all the other Lodoss posse members aren't my property….just mine to toy with!  Mwahaha- eh, sorry about that.  Only the story is mine, and I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter Two: Only Your Shadow As A Companion 

He woke to full awareness suddenly in the dark, gasping with the abrupt intensity of finding himself back in his body.  It was a painful, wrenching feeling, as though he had physically fallen out of the gentle gloaming he had been drifting in so contentedly.  Gone was the warmth and calm of the recess of his mind as he was made uncomfortably aware of his body and how much it ached.

He opened his eyes, blinking with the effort.  Above him somewhere he could see a faint glow of light, although it seemed quite far away,  further away than he wanted to think about.  The air all about him was warm, almost unpleasantly so, and smelled sulfurous and burnt.  

He lay in chiaroscuro dusk, on a thin ledge jutting out over a deep crack in the earth.  He lay almost completely still and silent in magic-blasted armor that encased him like the shiny black carapace of some kind of deadly-looking beetle.  The armor rose and fell only slightly with the hitching of his uneven breaths.  Around him, the earth rumbled gently, settling into itself.  

His ears still seemed to ring with her words to him.  Her command to wake, and live.  Melancholy added itself to the list of aches that pulsed through him.

"Pirotess," he sighed, her name bringing an acid burn to the back of his throat.  He could taste old blood on his lips.  Apparently, even if the sword had saved him, it had not healed his wounds, and he knew that he was badly hurt.  He closed his eyes, licking his lips distastefully.  He could not remember when his body had ached as sharply as it did now.

He wanted very much to slip back into the comfort of semi-consciousness, but resisted simply because the detached, logical part of his mind told him if he drifted off again he might not be able to wake, sword's power or not.  For half a moment he debated with himself whether he actually _wanted_ to come back to life or not; the darkness that flickered behind his eyelids was truly inviting.  After a brief debate, he sighed, wincing as his breath hitched against ribs that were bruised to inflamed tenderness.  

Ashuram wondered how long he had been laying there.  He had no sense of time.  His position over the crevice kept him from being able to see anything, and whatever scent might have been left after the battle was completely dominated by the sulfur in the air.  Vile.  He resisted the urge to cough against the scratchiness in his throat the thick air caused, sure it would only bruise his ribs the more.  

              His instinct told him that there was nothing else alive left in this subterranean place besides him.  What had Pirotess called the island again?  _Marmo's tomb_.  Considering what had happened here, a very fitting title.  

After a while, he decided to see how far he might get were he to try sitting up.  Bracing himself for the effort, he struggled to a sitting position, clawing at the stone wall beside him to lever himself up.  His vision swam grey and muzzy with the effort, spots floating before his eyes, the burn of his stomach and throat raising the taste of blood on the back of his tongue.  He clung to the wall in sudden dizziness, afraid he would accidentally pitch himself over the thin ledge that stopped abruptly just inches wider than the width of his own body.  It was a wonder that he had managed to stay on it for this long. 

 

He waited until the spots had faded from his vision, and looked up.  The top of the deep shaft that had opened in the earth was not as far away as he had originally thought.  If he stood up, he thought he would be able to manage to reach it if he jumped for it.

                The problem was his armor.  It was heavy and bulky, and he wasn't sure he would be able to pull himself up out of the crevice while still wearing it.  Much of his strength was gone.  Yet he could not fathom leaving it behind.  He would as soon be naked as be without the armor he had grown so accustomed to.  

He decided to try standing up first before removing it.  Carefully gathering his legs under him, he dug his fingers into the stone wall and pulled himself up into a standing position.  His vision receded to a fine, distant spot and a rushing roar began in his ears, stealing his hearing.  When the fit had passed him, he found himself panting against the stone, sweat trickling down his forehead.  One hand locked anchor-like in a shallow crevice in the stone, he reached down with a slow, careful movement and began to unbuckle the heavy, sculpted black armor.  When he was finished with one side, he switched hands carefully and undid the other.  The awareness of the void below and behind him was like a sword at his back, making his palms slick with nervous sweat.  

                He finally undid the fastenings at his shoulders and throat, pulling the massive shoulder guards away from his body.  He did not have enough room to pull them away from his body all the way, and so instead carefully pulled them off over his head, scraping his face in the darkness as he did so.  The weight of them nearly overbalanced him and sent him plunging backwards into space, but he threw himself against the wall as the shoulder guards slipped from his grasp,  hitting the ledge with a resounding metallic crash, before sliding into the depths of the crevice.  

                "Goddess," he breathed, closing his eyes as his face pressed  against the warm earth.  He hardly knew who his supplication was directed to.  He looked over his shoulder into the crevice.  Warm air blew up from the shadows into his face, and far, far below him he could see a dim red glare.  

                _I am looking into Hell_, he thought grimly to himself.  _If I stepped over this ledge…I am sure not even the power of Soul Crusher could keep me from that fiery death._  He could not help but keep his eyes locked on the glow below him, his hands beginning to loosen their desperate hold on the stone.    

                

He seemed to hear Pirotess' voice in his ears again, telling him he must live.  His hands almost of their own accord tightened their hold, and he tore his gaze away from the void.  He looked up to the edge of the crevice, and bending stiff knees, he jumped for it.

His hands hit the edge but did not find enough leverage to catch on to, and he slipped backwards.  The yell of effort he released was swallowed by the earth, and he felt a rush of adrenaline dread for just one brief moment as he slid, and then his feet hit the ledge beneath him.  Not allowing himself time to think, he jumped again, and this time he caught the edge with his hands and scrabbled to pull himself out.

What seemed like an eternity later Lord Ashuram, the Black Knight  of Lord Beld's army, lay panting and pale beside the crevice, looking rather less formidable without his armor.  He was sweating heavily, his head resting on his folded arm.  Slowly, he got his breath back.  He sat up, wiping sweat away from his forehead with his dark sleeve carelessly, and looked around him.

Light, faint and devoid of warmth, vaguely illuminated the cave-like place.  He could not tell where it was coming from, exactly, but it seemed to cling to the few pillars still left standing in the middle of the spacious shrine.  By the pale light he could see the ruin all around him.  The earth was buckled and broken, rifts and crevices opening up in deep wounds.  Wagnard had fallen into one of those, he remembered vaguely.  Gone was the altar the mage had been hell-bent (literally) on sacrificing the Elven ranger on.  Ashuram supposed it had followed its maker into the red gleam that waited hungrily below.

No bodies had been left behind.  Neither the bodies of Wagnard's acolytes nor the monsters that had seemed to be drawn out of the woodwork at the mage's command were anywhere to be seen.   He wondered if they had just disappeared upon Wagnard's death.

Incongruously enough, he spotted his cloak lying in a dark puddle of silk on the earth not far away, like an oil spill shimmering faintly in the wan light.  He levered himself to his feet and carefully picked his way around the broken earth to it.  Yes, it was his cloak.  He flung it over his shoulders, feeling slightly less vulnerable draped in its length.  He wondered if perhaps there might also be a weapon lying about, discarded from the battle.  Even a boot knife in his hands would make him feel better.  His eyes, grown used to the dimness, scoured the floor but could not spot a telltale glint of metal.

He swallowed a faint disappointment.  In his weakened, wounded state, a sword would have been quite useful; he was not sure what kind of nasties were leftover from Wagnard's spellcasting in this damp darkness.  However, long before he hand learned to use a sword he had been trained to defend and to kill with his hands.  A sword was not necessary.  In fact, he was not even sure he could have carried the weight of one.  

The earth around him rumbled and shifted without warning, pitching him flat on his face before he could catch his balance.  He cried out in pain as the air was expelled forcefully from him body, and hung onto the earth as it bucked and stirred beneath him.  Rocks loosened by the unsettled earth fell from the high ceiling above him, reigning down dust and small pebbles on him as the larger chunks of stone fell with a noise that deafened him.  He protected his head as well as he could by folding his arms behind his head, grimacing in pain.

As suddenly as it had begun, the rumbling stopped.  Dust floated through the air, settling slowly.  Ashuram painfully picked himself up and got shakily to his feet.  Pirotess was right about  the island falling to ruin. He had to leave.

With the altar gone and no mage's magic to levitate the huge stone platform back up to the surface of the world, he suspected the climb back up was going to be a lot harder than the descent had been.  Yet, there had to be some kind of exit, or the small party from Valis would have never been able to escape.  There must be a stairway somewhere that Wagnard's acolytes had used to come and keep the shrine clean.  He simply had to find it.  

He squinted around him in the darkness, trying to decide where the staircase in probability would be.  The huge chasm that had opened up and swallowed the altar closed off the north side of the tomb to him, and so he decided to try the southern wall.

Ashuram started over the uneven floor carefully, limping painfully.  It was not long before he had to pause, sucking for breath and spitting against the taste of blood in his mouth.  A new wave of hatred for the mage Wagnard woke in him.  He hated weakness of any kind, and that he should be reduced to this shambling, pathetic vulnerability by such petty betrayal….  He spat Wagnard's name like a curse.  

He started against the floor again, and luck was with him now for he could make out what he saw in the dim light was a staircase in the recess of the wall before him.  He made his way to it with a new sense of purpose.  

As he reached the foot of the staircase, he looked up at it in dismay.  It was the staircase he was looking for, that was certain.  It stretched far upwards until it disappeared in the gloom above.  However, the rumbling earth had brought the ceiling down in places on the stairs, leaving the stone steps covered in rubble in places and looking almost impassable in others.  

                He did not hesitate now, but instead resolutely started up the narrow steps, his boots, encased in leg greaves, making muffled clanking noises as he walked.  He stepped carefully over what he could, and when there was no way to step over the rubble, he picked his way over it, crawling on hands and knees like an animal.

He paused when his efforts had covered him in strained sweat, his face pinched and pale with effort.  He stopped in a spot clear of rubble and rested, his breathing harsh.  Still too heavy.  At this rate, he would never make it.  Allowing himself no sense of regret, he unbuckled his leg greaves and left them behind.  That was all he was willing to part with for now.  When his breath was back, he started up the steps again.

*              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

He climbed.

                When he had to stop, he did.  Leaning against the wall in the ever darkening murk, he would wipe sweat from his face with a corner of his cloak or his sleeve, whichever happened to be handiest, and pant for breath.  His body ached with a dull, mind-numbing throb that he made himself ignore with determined stoicism.  When he could go on again, he did so.

                As he climbed, he thought about what had brought him here, scrabbling like an insect out of the earth.

                His thoughts went to the Knight from Valis, Parn.  He had forgotten how many times he had crossed swords with the boy.   It had been a necessary sufferance to fight beside him against the deranged mage, and although Parn tried, he could not convince the Black Knight to join his side.  Ashuram thought about that, remembering the boy's sky blue eyes as he pleaded with him to become an ally.  

He could not have done it even had he wanted to, Ashuram thought to himself with cool objectivity.  Looking back on it, he was not sure how clearly he had been thinking.  Having lost Lord Beld, Pirotess, and the cause he had been fighting for all in rapid succession had left him in a dangerous mood of stubborn bitterness, and the soft, pleading look in Parn's eyes had merely fueled the desire to lash out.  Besides which, enemies were enemies, he thought to himself.  As long as you knew where you stood on that account, your actions immediately became clear.  He had not needed – detested, even – the boy's attempts to cloud the issue. 

                His feet wanted to stumble on the stairs, and he carefully set aside thoughts of the young knight.          

                He was very alone in this place.  There was no other living thing left in the entire castle, of that he felt certain.  He was reminded of an old, traditional poem, and mouthed it to himself as he climbed:

"The moon is scarcely known here,

                So far back in the mountains.

                Leave the world behind

                And you have only your shadow

                As a companion."¨

                He forced the poem out of his mind as well, and continued climbing.

*              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                When he could climb no further, he dropped to the stone steps and slept fitfully, curled uncomfortably on the cold stone in his cape.  His dreams were vague and disconnected, and his sleep hardly seemed restful, but his body had refused to go any further.  At last, when cold discomfort got the better of him, he roused himself blearily to his feet and kept climbing.  He had climbed so far that stairs stretched before him and behind him, seeming without end, disappearing into the gloom either way.  At some points, when he stopped to look behind him or before him, his depth perception played tricks on him and he wasn't sure if he were going upwards or falling downwards.  When that happened, he had to pause, eyes closed, and let the vertigo pass him by.

                He eventually removed the heavy, thick leather sword belt he wore around his waist, the scabbard empty, and let it fall with a clatter to the stone.  It did not relieve much weight, but it was enough that he could keep climbing.

As he removed his sword belt, something jingled faintly in his pocket.  He reached his hand in and pulled out a small metallic object, and squinted at it in the dimness.  Pirotess' Dark-Elven symbol.  His fingers closed over it, a grimace of pain flitting briefly across his fingers.  Perhaps he should just leave the thing behind…

                Something stopped him from discarding it.  He couldn't leave it here.  Instead, he put it around his own neck, hiding it under the tunic he wore, putting it out of sight so he would not be tempted to throw it away again.  He owed Pirotess that.

                His thoughts drifted again, this time to the Grey Witch, Karla.  He had seen the girl, Leylia, with the skinny, bookish mage Slayn, the circlet gone from around her forehead.  The Witch must have found a new body.  As appealing as the thought was, he doubted that she was dead.  She was far too old and crafty to let someone kill her, and he wondered if after so long she could truly die.  As long as she no longer interfered with him, he did not mind her existence in Lodoss.  

                He carefully  put  aside thoughts of the Witch as easily as he had shed his sword belt, but his body wanted distraction from the monotony and pain of climbing.  He thought next about Lord Beld.  The sight of the old Lord impaled on the hideous length of the dark lance had shocked even Ashuram, who was in general inured to such gruesome sights.  Lord Beld had always carried himself with such an air of invincibility, it had almost seemed impossible that the leonine Lord could die.  It had been such a culmination of strange feelings for Ashuram; both a sense of loss that their leader was dead, and a sense of vicious fulfillment that now he, the Black Knight, would also become the Sword Bearer, had vied in him for dominance.  The feeling of vicious fulfillment had won out, and he had accepted Soul Crusher with an eagerness that had almost cost him his life.  The first time he had held Soul Crusher, the power of the sword almost proved to be too much for him.

                He set these thoughts aside too, like so much dross, his consciousness narrowing to the stairs before him.

*              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                It seemed he had always been climbing.  

The time held within the high-vaulted stone staircase seemed never-ending, almost as if he had never been Lord Ashuram, Black Knight, at all, but only this struggling self, afraid to stop moving now lest his legs refuse to carry him any further.  

                He stopped at last, body seized with agony, and lay stretched out as though he had fainted, unable to move.

                "Pirotess," he sighed slowly, his face half-hidden against the cold stone.  "Pirotess, I have lost everything.  Being the Sword Bearer means nothing to me.  You are gone.  There is nothing left."  His mind clouded in the darkness of his exhausted depression, he slept.

                He seemed to see Pirotess' face before him, and when he woke again, it was to the memory of her words ringing in his ears, importuning him to live, and remember her.  The melancholy that stole over him when he thought of her was stealing his will to continue, and so with real regret, he put aside thoughts of Pirotess as well, discarding the things that weighed him down.

                He eventually discarded his boots as well, the heavy, thick-soled black boots that had been with him on every campaign.  He finished the rest of the climb barefoot, scrabbling over rocks and sharp rubble on feet used to marching but not used to sharp stones.  All he could do, however, was to keep going.  Eventually, he could see the staircase was lightening, the gloom around him gradually lifting.  His dark-adapted eyes squinted against even the feeble light, but sensing victory, he continued upwards.

                When he at last broke the surface of the world again, he had shed nearly everything weighing him down.  He stood barefoot, clothed only in his dark tunic, loose breeches and cloak, his face pale and gaunt, his dark eyes shadowed.  He had discarded the thoughts weighing him down as well, and it was almost as though a new person faced the dim, suffused light filling the upper reaches of the palace on Marmo, a person free of any encumbrance.  Gone was the Black Knight, and in his place stood a ragged-looking man, fiercely determined and coolly efficient, but exhausted both in body and soul nearly past the point of endurance.      

                He allowed himself only a brief moment of triumph before he let himself realize how sickeningly hungry he was.  He had to find food.  With only this thought in mind, he went to search the kitchens.  

                                                                *              *              *

Hi!  Your friendly neighborhood Fírén here, with just some Authorly notes: 

¨ - The Japanese translation of this poem is as follows:

Tsuki wo shiranu ya

Miyama naruran

Sutsurumi ni

Waga kage bakari

Tomonai te.            

And is taken from the book Traditional Japanese Poetry, An Anthology, compiled and translated by Stephen Carter.  

Whee!  I told you it's dark!  But don't worry, from here on out – if you're still reading – it gets better.  Thanks for reading!


	3. Old habits....

Ok

Ok. You know the drill - I don't own Lodoss or the rest of the Lodoss crew.  I'm only borrowing them for a little while.  I promise to return them unharmed!  ^-^   

I DO own Healer Veris, however, as well as Vesper and all the people in Vesper.  *New Character Alert! *

-_-;  

                ****Chapter Three: Old Habits… 

                                She dreamt of the war horns that called the ragged ranks of soldiers to battle, the piercing tones clear and bright in the anxious, storm-looming air that pressed down on her.  She dreamt of seeing soldiers on every side of her as far as she could see, the plain a swarm born by a blue and silver wave.  

                                She dreamt of seeing the tide of the Marmo army against the horizon, the dark wash of humans and monsters dwarfing the army of King Fahn and poised to strike like a dam waiting to burst.  She dreamt of the stillness that hung over them all as they stood waiting for the horn to call them to action.

                                She dreamt of the battle call, and the answering collective growl that seemed to rise from both sides of the field, a sound that rose above the shaking of the earth as men and horses charged towards one another with deadly abandon, faces contorted in battle-rage.

                                She dreamt of the dragon.  The great beast that rose from the ranks of Marmo and rose ponderously into the air with a thunderous scream of promised violence, to circle in the sky above the army.  There were no words in her vocabulary for the great size of the beast, nor the overpowering sulfurous, carrion stench that the wind from its wings brought, nor the terror that burst in her at the sight of it.  It screamed and spewed forth a river of flame that washed the Valisian army in blazing death.

                                She dreamt of the faces of the soldiers that had been brought to the Healers' tent, and the smell of blood and burnt flesh that choked her as she surveyed the wounded.  There were too many to count, too many to help, too many dying all around her.

                                She dreamt of the sword in her hand, the slim Elven blade that her father had made, the runes obscured by dark Orc blood.  She dreamt of her pale hands stained dark with ichor, the battle cry of rage pushed beyond fear issuing from her own throat, as she flung herself forward towards the army of Kanon.  She dreamt the feeling of the sword pierce through Orc and Kobold armor.  She dreamt of the Orc sword raised high above her, faster than she could block, poised in the split second before it would descend and impale her, and she remembered…

                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                Veris woke violently  in semi-darkness to the sound of her own harsh cry issuing through jaws clenched tightly in fear, her heart pounding in an irrational tempo against her breastbone.  For a blank moment her eyes were blind, lost in the chaos of her own thoughts.  There was a brief, unutterable moment of panic as her hand fumbled for a sword that was no longer there.  Then she remembered she no longer wore her sword even as she slept, and the warm, suffused glow of dawn brought the familiar shapes and contours of her bedroom into register under her gaze.

                                Dreams again.  Never the same one twice, these days.

                Sometimes she could remember them, and sometimes she couldn't.  She dreamed about the war most often, and occasionally about her parents.   They always left her thus: sweat-rimed and chilled, sheets unpleasantly damp with her own perspiration tangled about her shivering limbs.                   

                                

Veris tried to calm the racing of her heart with a few carefully drawn-out breaths.  In.  Out.  Easy.  The dream fear was already fading, leaving her with an unpleasant, dry taste thick in her mouth.  Her eyes instinctively went to the space between the nightstand and the bed, where her family sword stood propped, in easy reach should she ever need it.  The sight of the sword was at once a relief and a reminder of what haunted her, and she felt guilty at the reassurance she immediately felt knowing it was still there.

_As if you could ever lose it_, she thought to herself with an odd mixture of humor and pessimism.

After a moment of getting her breath back, she realized she was awake for the morning.  She was too finely wound to relax enough to give in to sleep again, and the clinging, sweat-damp sheets were not appealing at all.  She pulled back the covers and stood up, grumbling only half-heartedly to herself.  The truth was, rude awakening or no, she probably would have been awake about now anyway.

There was a small basin on her dresser waiting next to a pitcher of water, and she moved towards it, yawning broadly.  A foggy mirror hung over the basin, and she caught her reflection in it and paused for just a moment.

A thin, pale face stared back at her, looking entirely too solemn for its own good.  The large green eyes were too wide to be completely human, and if there was any further doubt the slight point of her ears marked her as half-Elven.  The tousled hair that fell past her shoulders was a distinctive color that hovered somewhere between red and gold, and even when she was being kind to herself Veris could only think of it as a funny, smoky color that seemed to defy both classification and current style.

"Well, Veris, and a good morning to you," she said to the mirror, ruining the solemn image by making a face at her reflection.   It was far too clear a morning, and she did not want to let her dreams ruin the day before it had begun, especially those dreams that it seemed she would always have.  She tried hard to push them out of her mind as she poured water from the pitcher into the basin carefully.  Pulling back her sleeves, she bent and washed her face in the basin of cold water.  It helped to clear her mind of the last vestiges of dream fog.

Face still dripping, she went over to her armoire and opened it  to the soft smell of  fresh laundry and the lavender she had hung to keep the moths away from her clothing.  Her wardrobe was scant, and out of long habit she pulled the soft, slate-colored robe she always wore off its hanger and over her head.  Under it, she slipped on a pair of loose trousers, with plenty of pockets for the odds and ends she always seemed to be needing.

She wore the grey robe of a Healer.  Veris had worn the Healer's robe ever since she was eighteen, although sometimes she was not sure how much she deserved to wear them.  She remembered her dream suddenly and sobered, almost unconsciously wiping her hands on her robe as if to rid them of some stain.

"Don't be an idiot," she told herself sharply.  "You have more important things to do this morning than mope about things you can't change."  

She sighed.

 She moved to pick up her brush from the dresser and began to pull it through her hair.  She could not help smiling ruefully at herself for her habit of speaking her thoughts out loud. Not that this was an entirely new phenomenon, but she supposed living alone for nearly a year and a half could only have exacerbated the habit.  She didn't mind this habit so much but sometimes it was embarrassing when she forgot herself in front of the villagers and held lengthy discussions with no one in particular about subjects only she was keeping track of.  That certainly didn't help the eccentric image she had undoubtedly already earned herself, but in general the villagers seemed quite willing to be forgiving of all her quirks, including that one.  The thought made her smile affectionately, before a frown of concentration formed itself between her thin brows as she pulled her hair back and braided it fiercely into something very like submission.  

By the time she had finished getting dressed, the sun was up and she could hear the rooster crowing mightily from the barnyard.  She ran down the stairs into the infirmary, pausing only to slip into a pair of thick, ugly boots before running out into the morning.

The air that hit her was cold and clear, and she immediately was chilled despite the sturdiness of the robe she wore.  Muttering to herself about the need to wear more clothing, she let herself in by the gate and hurried into the barn yard.  Shooing a couple of chickens out of the way, she struggled to open the barn door, pushing it with some effort along tracks that were old and stiff.

 As she opened the door, dust swirled in the sunlight flooding into the old barn, and the soft beating sound of wings sprang up as pigeons rose to the rafters, cooing softly in half-hearted alarm.

It was amazing, Veris thought to herself, how the smell of a barn in early spring could still be so reassuring to her.  The sweet smell of hay and the woody, dusty odor of the cedar chips that Garn delivered for her every month hit her nose immediately.  It was mingled with the molasses scent of the feed stored in the grain room and underlayed by the acrid odor of horse urine – even that didn't smell bad, only pungent.   

The barn was rough and time-grey around the weather-worn edges, but it looked fine to her – welcoming and warm.  Perhaps because it was _her_ barn, she was less inclined to see the faults.

An aggressive whicker broke the calm silence insistently.  Veris chuckled to herself and made her way to the only occupied stall in the barn, dust motes eddying in her wake.  

"Good morning, girl," Veris greeted the small brown mare, who immediately answered by giving another whicker and pushing her nose ungently into the young half-Elf's hands to see if she had food there.  When it became apparent that Veris wasn't holding out on her, she put her ears back in frustration and snorted, sounding for all the world as though she were disgusted with her owner.  

"I'm going, I'm going,"  she said placatingly, heading towards the grain room.  She had to smile at the mare's irritability.  The mare was not sweet tempered at all; in fact, she had nipped Veris several times over the years.  However, she was an intelligent horse and she had saved Veris more than once, and Veris had never thought of selling her. 

She filled a scoop with horse feed, shaking it to measure it evenly.  At the sound the mare began stopping her foot, nickering eagerly.  

"I'm coming!  Impatient creature," Veris scolded without heat, dumping the feed into the mare's bucket.  The horse bared her teeth at Veris calmly and dug in, munching contentedly.  Veris sighed, shaking her head, and went to fill the scoop with chicken feed.  Walking around the barnyard, she scattered the feed on the ground, and the few chickens she had came running to greedily peck at what she'd scattered.

Morning chores done, she wandered back into the barn and sat on a hay bale with a soft sigh, listening to the mare chew.  Her life had fallen easily into this routine, and she enjoyed the normalcy of it.

 She had been living in the small, rural village of Vesper for…well, it would be two years, come winter.  It hardly seemed possible that so much time could have passed since Veris, weary and heartsick with traveling, had spied the village tucked away in the rolling hills of what had to be Alania's most southern point.  It had been a beautiful place even then, buried under a thick blanket of snow, and she had known almost before approaching the village elders that this was where she wanted to stay.

The acceptance had been so easy.  No one had asked questions about her past, nor had they seemed to care that she was half-Elven.  All they saw were her healer's robes, and every one of the villagers had been so damned grateful to have a healer worth anything, they had simply held out their arms to her and she had walked right in.  She had never been anywhere else where the same held true.  She was always so afraid that one day, she would wake up, and find that all of it was gone.   

"Healer Veris!  Healer Veris!"  A voice called, shattering her reflections.  For a moment, Veris froze, and then she smiled, seeing a familiar face appear in the sunlight at the barn door.  _Easy there,_ she told herself with a wry smile, _it's not an emergency every time your name is called, not anymore_. 

"Morning, Lira," she said to the young woman that had appeared at the door, holding a basket in her arms.  "Is there something I can do for you?"  The young woman moved into the barn, her scuffed walking shoes making a purposeful clatter on the barn floor. 

"Morning, Healer," the woman said, her friendly, open face smiling broadly.  "I knocked on the door but didn't get an answer, so I hope you don't mind me interrupting your morning chores."  

"Oh yes, I was hard at work," Veris said with a grin, indicating her seat.  Lira chuckled.

"Well, don't let me disturb you then," she said.  "I was sent round to thank you for your help the other day."  Veris nodded.

"Ah.  Yes.  Your mother, how is she?" The Healer asked.  Lira nodded.

"Very well, thanks to you.  She's much better."  Veris nodded, mostly to herself, her professional concern fulfilled.  "She sent your favorite," Lira added with a wink, pulling back the cloth covering the top of the basket to reveal a few dense loaves of apple bread.

Veris took an appreciative breath of the fresh bread, and her stomach growled audibly.  The women both laughed.

"That was good of her," Veris said, standing to take the basket.  "I suppose it's no secret how much I love apple bread."     

Veris had learned early that business in Vesper was not conducted in the manner she was used to.  There was very little money in Vesper, and as it was a small, isolated village, it had returned to the primitive system of barter and trade.  People paid for the Healer's services not in gold, but most often with services in return for her Healing.  It was the reason she could get fresh cedar chips for the barn every month, free feed for the mare and the chickens, and fresh apple bread for breakfast.  It was a good life, and so far Veris had not missed having gold at all.  

"I've also been ordered to help you if there's anything that needs doing," Lira replied, looking hopefully down at the short Healer.   

Veris looked up at Lira, who stood taller than her by  nearly a hand.  It was spring, the middle of planting season, and Lira was probably looking for a good excuse to keep away from the arduous work expected to be done around her farm.  

"Well," the Healer said, deciding to help the young woman, "I was planning to go look for some herbs I've almost run out of, and I could certainly use company."  She grinned.  Lira grinned back, looking relieved.

"I'd be happy to help," the young woman replied promptly.

Veris sometimes forgot how young most of the villagers in Vesper were.  Lira's dark hair and pale grey eyes made her look older than she was, until she smiled.  Most of the villagers had dark hair and skin roughened from working outdoors in all weather; Lira's skin was permanently ruddy at her cheeks, giving her a healthy, high-colored look.  Veris, with her pale, half-Elven slightness, looked rather out of place among the sturdy farm people of Vesper.  She supposed she looked rather younger than she actually was; it was notoriously hard to guess the age of Elves and half-Elves alike, because they aged so much more slowly than humans.     

"Let me just put this in the kitchen,"  Veris said, indicating the basket of bread.  Lira nodded.

When Veris returned, with an empty basket hung in the crook of her left arm, she was buckling on the Elven sword with casual grace.  She noticed Lira eyeing her and smiled ruefully.  Most of the men in Vesper wore swords, and some of the women did as well, but she knew it must look rather hypocritical for a Healer to be wearing a sword.  However, she could not leave without it.

"Old habits are hard to break," Veris said almost apologetically to Lira, who smiled understandingly.  Veris knew the young woman did not know exactly what she meant by that, but knew also that she probably wouldn't ask – personal questions in Vesper were rare, and she was glad of it.  

"One never knows what one might meet, this close to Kanon," Lira added agreeably.  "Why, just the other day my Da spotted some kobolds moving through the woods towards Flaim."  Veris raised her eyebrows.

"Hmm," the Healer said.  "Well, at least it wasn't Orcs."  

*              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                By late afternoon, the sun had warmed the air so that it was nearly hot, and Veris had rolled her long, full sleeves back to keep them out of the way.  She and Lira had made their way into the woods that surrounded Vesper thickly, laughing and chatting together as they searched for the herbs that Veris required.  

                                Lira seemed especially ready to talk, and Veris was quite content to let her young friend fill the silence with cheerful chatter.  She was most inclined to talk about one of the village boys that had been helping her family in the fields recently.

                                "Think you'll marry?" Veris asked eventually with an indulgent grin, cutting off yet another long-winded description of the young man's virtues.  Lira blushed, and returned the Healer's grin with one of her own.

                                "I guess I have been talking a lot about him," she said with a sheepish laugh.  "Who knows what will happen.  Da certainly likes him, and Mam will come around, if I'm serious."  Veris nodded, pleased with Lira's forthrightness.  

                                "What about you, Healer?" Lira asked, looking slightly sly.  "Don't you think you'll ever marry?"  Veris snorted in a quite unladylike fashion, which made Lira laugh in surprise.  It always startled her when the somewhat delicate-looking Healer did something decidedly un-delicate.  

                                "Not likely," the Healer replied.  "I'm too stubborn to get married."  _Besides_, she added to herself, _not in Vesper - half-Elves can't marry humans._  We'd outlive them by a hundred years or more.  She stifled a sigh.  

                                "Well, you shouldn't give up," Lira said.  "Besides, Vesper doesn't want to lose you so we're all hoping you'll marry and stay here."  She gave the Healer a cheerful grin, and Veris chuckled amicably.  

                                The Healer looked down at the basket she held, which was full of the greenery they had picked and smelled of a pungent combination of herbs that were invaluable to her work.  Like most Healers, Veris knew a few healing spells, but she suspected the use of magic in Vesper would make the villagers uncomfortable, and so used the old-fashioned methods whenever she could.  

                                "Well," she said to Lira, "I think I've got everything I need for today, so perhaps-"  Veris cut herself off abruptly, her head coming up to listen with sudden intensity.

                                "Healer?" Lira asked, puzzled.  "What-?"

                                "Shh," Veris cautioned.  "I heard-"  The soft rustle in the underbrush came again, slightly louder; Lira heard it this time and froze.  Veris very deliberately put her basket down and rested her right hand on the sword hilt at her left hip.  She faced the direction of the noise with poised stillness, her eyes sharp in the dimness of the forest.  The half-light did not bother her as it did Lira; Veris could see in the dark with the same ease as she could see during the day. 

 

"Show yourself," she said in a calm, flat voice that had nothing whatsoever to do with the jovial tone belonging to the Healer that Lira knew.  This voice was devoid of humor, the normally relaxed half-Elf now drawn into a tight crouch, coiled with purposeful energy.

                                A kobold crashed clumsily through the underbrush, holding a spear and wearing armor that looked a bit the worse for wear.  So.  This one wasn't a wild kobold, but had been recruited into the army at some point.  From the looks of things, there was a Marmo sigil on its breastplate.  The border to Kanon was not far away from Vesper at any point, and Veris realized the possibility of straying monsters from Marmo-occupied Kanon was quite likely.  

                                If it was asingle kobold, there was no problem.  However, they often traveled in groups.  If there were more than one, Veris was sure she was going to run into trouble.

                                "Lira, get behind me," she commanded without any change in her tone.  There was no argument to be brooked with that voice, and the young woman did as she was told.

                                "Well?" Veris asked the monster, fairly sure it could not understand her.  "What do you want?"  Her voice was still flat and chill, her face a mask of calm that fell over her quite naturally.  

                                In response, the kobold attacked with a high-pitched, growling yell, swinging its spear with no great accuracy but with shattering strength.

                                "By the iron balls of Fa-" Veris started to splutter the old soldier's oath, and stopped herself ruefully, remembering Lira.  Old habits again….  She sidestepped the clumsy attack easily, and, thinking of the young woman behind her, felt no compunctions about stabbing the creature through the throat with almost uncanny precision as it passed her.  

                                The thing died with a gurgle, and Veris looked down at it unemotionally.

"Healer, behind you!" Lira cried, and Veris whirled to see another kobold rushing towards the young woman.  Stepping in front of her, Veris knocked the kobold's spear out of the way with the hilt of her sword and slashed its throat as it passed.  It turned with a high pitched growl of rage, and she saw that she had misjudged slightly, missing the artery.  Blood seeped from the gash in its throat, but it was still on its feet.  It rushed them again, swinging its spear, and Veris ducked under its arm and stabbed it where the armor left a gap between shoulder guard and breast plate, under its furry arm.  It fell with a horrible cry, clutching at its wounds.  Eventually its writhing stopped, and it fell still. 

 Stone-faced, Veris flicked blood from the Elven runes on her sword with a quick, downward whipping motion of her arm, and sheathed the sword in the same swift, graceful motion.  She turned to Lira, who was watching her with wide eyes, looking rather pale.

"Healer," she breathed in astonishment.  "You…that…so fast…"  Veris shrugged, unable to say anything, and picked up her basket with a strange, disconnected nonchalance.  

"Kobolds," the Healer spat in disgust.  "Come on, Lira, let's get back before we run into any more of those things."  Lira blinked at her, seeming to come back to herself with an effort.  She followed the Healer hesitantly, unsure what to make of the dispassionate chill in the Healer's face.

They were halfway home before Lira spoke into the fragile silence surrounding them.

"The elders will want to know about the kobolds," Lira said.  "And my da.  Healer, you saved me."  

"That's my job," Veris said, and suddenly her voice broke, and she began to tremble violently, her face draining of color.

"Healer?" Lira asked, concerned.  Veris shook her head.

"I'm alright," she said through chattering teeth.  "Just…give me…a minute."  The cold objectivity had faded, leaving her with a sense of guilt-ridden horror at herself.  Killing…even now…it still came so easily .  It was only afterwards that she could feel any thing; during any sort of skirmish like the one just now, the chill detachment from her own conscience was all too easy and felt completely natural.  

…_Just a kobold…_ one part of her mind wanted to insist rationally.  It didn't matter that it was a monster that would have killed her as quickly as she had killed it, had it been able.  The thing that bothered her was that it was so effortless, an act of death brought about by the same hands that should work only to heal. _The healer who is also a cold-blooded killer_, she thought to herself, shaking.  _Did Lira see how easy that was…for me?_  I had hoped…I would never have to do that again.  

"Healer," Lira said again.  "You fought in the wars, didn't you?"  Hoping she didn't look as miserable as she felt, Veris nodded.  

"A lot of the villagers did, too," Lira said, "when Alania joined Valis against Marmo, many in Vesper enlisted, too.  I wondered where you had learned to move so fast.  I just froze – you really saved my life."  Veris looked up, surprised by the understanding in the young woman's voice.  

"Just be glad you didn't have to fight in the war," Veris replied, smiling a bit wistfully.  "We in Valis had no choice in the matter."

"Ah," Lira said.  Then she grinned.  "No wonder you have an odd accent," she said.  "You're from Valis.  We all wondered."  Veris made herself chuckle, trying to swallow the old feeling of guilt and adrenaline, tucking her hands into her belt to stop their trembling.  

                                "_I'm_ not the one with the odd accent," she said, sounding something like herself at last.  

                                "Still, you'll probably get a lifetime supply of apple bread for sure, now," Lira said after a moment, looking thoughtful.  She met Veris' eyes with a cheerful smirk, and startled, the Healer laughed.     

                                                                                *              *              *


	4. Humility

Ashuram isn't mine sob

Ashuram isn't mine sob!.  Lodoss isn't mine, either.  Poop.  

Everybody else though…mine mine mine!!  

Also I want to point out that this chapter has its violent elements.  If you don't like that sort of thing, please don't read!  I really don't _like_ violence or depicting it, but if you're writing about violent times, it's the sort of thing that needs to be included to preserve the genuineness of the story.  Blah blah *kicks herself off of her soapbox* Enough!  Ok, now….on with the show!  

…Poor Ashuram! (-_-);    

                                                                ****Chapter Four: Humility

                                "Well, I don't care if you're the blasted Lord of Darkness himself," the rough, supercilious voice of the Captain carried loudly over the dock as he eyed the gaunt, pale man before him with obvious dislike.  

"Since my ship and crew were liberated," he continued, "I don't take orders from anybody 'cept the person that hires me and my crew.  Lord Garing didn't say anything about taking on an extra passenger in Marmo, of all Goddess-forsaken places."   The last was muttered under his breath, but quite audibly. 

                                

Ashuram was coldly furious.  He didn't know which frustrated him more, the ignorance of this small frigate-Captain or the fact that he was in a position that made him dependant on the man's good will.  It had been a long time since he had been with so little authority over any situation put before him, and he was completely unused to being thwarted, much less with such obvious malice.

"Cap'n, sir," one of the sailors said, moving up beside the heavy-set, swarthy man with a look of fright directed in Ashuram's general direction.  "Don't you know who Lord Ashuram is?  The Black Knight, Cap'n sir.  The Marmo army."  Ashuram held himself still patiently.  It was a struggle to keep himself standing upright, but pride and anger kept his backbone stiff.

The war was over: Marmo had been defeated.

He did not expect that recognition would bring him any change of fortune, and he was right.

"He doesn't look like any black knight to me," the Captain replied dubiously.  "In fact, he looks like something the gypsies might take pity on.  There's no room for you, black knight or whoever you may be."

"I can pay my way," Ashuram said calmly, no trace of the anger he felt touching what was naturally a chill, commanding voice.  He patted the money pouch he had hung on his hip with a confidence he did not feel.

After he had found food in the kitchens, Ashuram had gone to what remained of his old chambers.  The castle crumbled slowly around him, and his sparse chambers had been a mess of fallen stone and dust.  Most of the valuables and his clothes had been stolen by the servants, although he had found the small chest of gold hidden behind his wardrobe that he had stored there when he had first come to the palace, when his monthly salary had seemed tremendous to a young man that had never seen such wealth in his life before.  That had been long ago.  Fortunately for him, his habit of hoarding things had served him well now, and the servants had not found the hidden chest. 

He had also found a pair of cracked, old boots that had belonged to him long before he had become the fearsome dark general of Lord Beld's army.  They were unrefined brown leather, but they were far better than going barefoot.  Not even his stiff, fierce pride could have suffered standing in front of these sailors in his bare feet.   Any clothing that remained had been stolen for the value of the cloth.  Not even an old practice tunic had been left, and he had to be content with the clothes he wore, which were fast growing filthy and foul.

However, the state of his clothing was the least of his worries.  Burning foremost in his brain was the desire to get away from the decaying island.  Beyond that he had little in the way of a plan.  He simply wanted to put the crumbling prison of Marmo far behind him.

He had been extremely lucky that there remained a ship in Marmo's small harbor.  He suspected they were doing something illicit there; what, he was not sure, nor did he even care.  All that mattered to him was that there was a ship – only one – and it was his chance to get away from Marmo.  He cared not at all where they were bound, only that he go with them when they left.

He had tied his tangled hair back in a semblance of order, and the dark cloak gave him some dignity of office.  Otherwise, however, he knew he was a sorry sight.  He was a man walking with injuries that would have killed a lesser man – would have killed him, too, except for the inexplicable sword.  He imagined he must look as though death rode not far behind him, and in truth, he felt that way.  If these men had any clue of how much willpower it was taking merely to stand here before them straight-shouldered and steady, they would undoubtedly rob him of the very few possessions he had and leave him for the vultures.

The Captain squinted at the tall, jet-haired man, interested in spite of himself.

"Let's see the color of your coin," he said at last, the challenge obvious in his whisky-rough voice.  Ashuram dug a coin out of the bag and tossed it to the man.  The Captain caught it, and frowned suspiciously down at the thick, dark gold coin.

"…Marmo gold," The Captain growled, mostly to himself.  "Dark as the island."  He bit it carefully.  Looking up, he speared Ashuram with a sharp gaze under bushy, greasy grey eyebrows.

"Gold from the island of a fallen, ruined Goddess," he said flatly.  "Probably cursed four ways to Sunday."  He looked at Ashuram, expecting denial.  The tall man shrugged, and despite his gauntness all assembled on the deck could see the muscles ripple in his broad shoulders at the slight movement.  He stood completely still, the same stillness a panther might have as it readied itself to spring,  and held himself with a fighter's confidence.  Not even the Captain could resist a chill feeling of fear looking into the man's pale, predatory face and dark, flat eyes.  Unbeknownst to the Captain, it was this fear that motivated his immediate and intense hatred of the man.  Ashuram knew it for what it was.  He had seen it many times before, on many different faces, and he saw it now in the face of the weathered, shabby Captain.

"Perhaps," Ashuram said only.  "It comes from Khardis' island.  But gold is gold; after the expense of war, do you think your lord will truly care where it comes from?"  It was a long shot, he knew.  War was expensive, and now that it was over, he knew that recovery would be slow.  However, the darkness of the gold marked it as Marmo coin.

He saw that it hit home, however.  The sailors met each other's eyes uneasily.

"…got a point there," he heard one of them mutter unwillingly.  "Lord Garing certainly won't give a toss whose gold it used to be, just as long as it's in his control."

The Captain gave Ashuram a long, measuring look.  Ashuram kept his gaze neutral, trying to look relaxed.  His legs were beginning to tremble ever so slightly with the strain, and soon the sheen of sweat across his brow would be highly visible.

"Fine," the Captain said grudgingly, at last.  "You have passage with us only 'till we reach the first port in Alania.  We leave with the tide.  It'll cost you that entire bag of gold, though."

"Fine," Ashuram echoed, feeling weak with relief.

"You'll pay me now," the Captain continued.  Ashuram couldn't argue.  He threw the man the bag of gold carelessly, and the Captain caught it gingerly.

 There was a roaring growing in Ashuram's ears that threatened to engulf him, and his vision seemed to be growing dim.  He fought lightheadedness fiercely.

"…had better get your sorry, bedraggled self aboard, then," the Captain was saying, turning away.  "But you had better not be expecting any special treatment, for you won't get it.  You'll sleep on a hammock in the hold with the rest of the sailors."

"…I understand," Ashuram replied, hoping his voice didn't sound too faint.  Blinking hard against the grey that was slowly stealing his vision, he made his way carefully down the dock and, somehow, kept his balance well enough across the narrow plank to the frigate waiting in Marmo's dark waters.   The sailors made way for him, ducking out of the blank, fevered stare of the darkly clad man, muttering imprecations and wards against bad luck as he passed.

"Your bunk is this way," a sailor told him as he came aboard.  The voice sounded neither friendly nor threatening, just a statement.  "Come on, I'll show you."

"…My thanks…" Ashuram nodded, following the voice.  He blinked again, hard, his vision slowly beginning to clear.

In the hold he was given a hammock, and the sailor that had shown him down to the hold showed him how to hang it.

"You'll have to figure out how to sleep in it on your own," the sailor said, and now Ashuram could see that it was a young man speaking to him, with a shock of bright blond hair and skin dark with years of sun and wind.  His eyes were sky blue and seemed somewhat friendly as they offered him a small, wry smile.

                                "I thank you," Ashuram said again, nodding.  He couldn't bring himself to return the man's smile, but the cold stiffness around his eyes relaxed slightly.

                                He noticed then the man eyeing his throat with frank appraisal.  The coldness came back to Ashuram's eyes rapidly.

                                "A word of advice," the young man told him, meeting the cold gaze again without flinching.  "You might want to keep that little trinket of yours hidden.  Nobody'd think twice of stealing it from you.  Not even me."  He gave Ashuram a grin that held little comradeship in it, and gave the taller man a nod.  Turning on his heel, he left smartly.

                                Ashuram's hand stole up to his throat, and he remembered Pirotess' headband.  There was no where else he could keep it where it would be completely safe, but he pulled the neck of his tunic up to cover it again.

                                Carefully, he sat in his newly hung hammock, sighing to himself.  The hands he ran through sweat-slicked hair trembled with exhaustion.  His head rang and a mist seemed to have attached itself to his thoughts, making his mind feel fuzzy and lethargic.  _I am not well off_, he finally admitted to himself, resting his face in his hands.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                He woke unpleasantly to the sharp pain of something hard jabbing him in the ribs ungently.  Ashuram opened his eyes blearily, exhaustion unwilling to release him into awareness.  He looked up, confused and not quite remembering where he was, to see the Captain standing above him, looking angry.

                                "Get up and get yourself on deck," the Captain snarled.  "You're nobody's guest, and I'll certainly tolerate no freeloading on my ship."    He was holding a long cutlass, the hilt of which he had apparently shoved into Ashuram's ribs.

                                "Do you understand me?" He said, bending down into the pale man's vacant face.  Ashuram blinked, dragging his awareness back from sleep.

                                "…I do," Ashuram replied, voice grating on weariness.  Underneath him, he could feel the heaving of the ship as it moved ponderously over the ocean. The smell of salt-cured rope and wood was almost overpowering. 

                                "Then get yourself up and report to the First Mate for duty," the Captain growled, standing back.  "You're obviously no sailor, but if you want  your rations, you'll work for them like everyone else."

                                Ashuram could not help the look of cold hatred that flashed in his eyes, but he merely nodded.  He was in no position to oppose this man, and he knew it.  The Captain took a step back from the look in the pale man's eyes instinctively.

                                "Bloody idiocy," the Captain growled, turning on his heel and marching out.  "On the double, black knight."

                                Ashuram pulled himself out of the hammock with uncharacteristic clumsiness, the motion of the ship nearly sending him to the planks below as he tried to stand.  He had never particularly cared for sailing.  He pulled himself fully upright against the painful stiffness of his limbs with the help of the roughly planked wall, lips thinned in a wince.

                                Looking around the hold, he saw he was the only one in it.  All the other hammocks had been stowed away.  He wondered how the shifts worked on the ship, and decided someone would tell him exactly when he was in error.  The thought made him smile to himself blackly.  He rubbed his hand over his face in exhaustion.  Pulling his tunic up so Pirotess' charm was hidden, he made his way up on deck.

                                He soon found himself hoisting sails with the other sailors.  None of them took kindly to his presence, muttering as he joined them.  A single look quelled their comments so that no one said anything out loud, but he could feel their suspicion of him none the less.  He ignored them, concentrating more on not letting the pain of his limbs make him lose his already tenuous grasp on consciousness.  Hoisting sails was not helping his wounded body, and he gritted his teeth and did what he could.

   When they at last stopped for the night, Ashuram was so tired he could hardly eat the small plate of rations he'd been given.  His eyes kept drifting closed despite his best intentions.  He was nearly sleepwalking when he dragged himself down to the hold and into his hammock.  He was surrounded by the chattering voices of the other sailors, but he tuned it out easily enough.  Kicking off his boots and storing them neatly beside the post that supported his hammock, he fell into a deep slumber.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                When he woke the next morning to the jolt of the Bosun's whistle piercing the air, his boots were gone.

                                Ashuram blinked in groggy disbelief as he realized they were nowhere to be seen.  His jaw clenched in frustration.  Somehow, every small setback seemed so major these days.  Had his world really grown so narrow?  He knew the answer to that.  Those boots were one of the only things of value he still had, and he wanted them back.

                                He pulled himself upright, letting his legs get used to the sea heaving beneath them, and came up on deck purposefully.  The salt smell of the sea filled his nose bracingly, and he took a deep breath of it.  He spotted the Captain standing forward in the bow, and approached him with a look of grim determination on his face.

                                "Captain," he said, getting the man's attention.  He was favored with a grunt and a look of dislike.  "A word with you.  One of your men has stolen my boots."  The Captain regarded him blankly, pipe clenched between his teeth, the bitter smelling smoke drifting up in lazy coils.

                                "So?" The Captain barked around the pipe stem, turning away.

                                "I want them back.  Now." Ashuram's voice had grown dangerously soft.  The Captain eyed him, not quite turning to face him, smoke streaming from his broad nostrils.

                                "It's none of my concern if you fail to stow your things properly," the Captain replied at last with a shrug.  "Be glad no one tried to slit your throat first, man."  He turned away completely then, the conversation obviously over.

                                Ashuram fought the urge to simply kill the Captain with his bare hands.  The grim thought somehow brought dark humor bubbling up from somewhere deep within him.  Why did everything have to be so hard for him?  The ironic smile he was fighting at the position he suddenly found himself pulled his thin lips up into a smirk.

                                "Very well," he said.  "I'll take care of it myself."  He turned and left the Captain starting to splutter some answer after him, which he ignored.

*              *              *              *              *              *              *

It was during his supper that night that Ashuram saw one of the sailors wearing his boots, making no effort to hide them.  Such a small thing, he thought, but they were his, and he would have them back.

"I lost a pair of boots just like those," he said to the sailor casually, moving to sit by the man at the long table, moving other sailors out of the way ungently.  The man, a truculent looking sailor, gave him a surly look.

"Tragic," the man said, returning to his supper without a second glance in Ashuram's direction.  Ashuram  suddenly was disinterested in the game of bandying words.

"You and I both know those are my boots," Ashuram said quietly.  The man looked up at him, the truculent expression deepening.

"And who the hell are you that you think you're the only one that has leather boots aboard?" The sailor demanded, quite defensively.  "Go away, man, and let me eat my supper in peace.  Before you get hurt."

Ashuram grabbed the steel steak knife he had been issued with his rations and went for the other man's throat with a sudden calculated movement.  Only sheer luck saved the sailor – he fell backwards off of the bench and onto the planks with an inarticulate yell, moving backwards as fast as he could away from the tall pale man.  Ashuram followed him single-mindedly, eyes clear and indifferent, the nominally sharpened knife poised to strike.  He sprung again for the sailor, and Ashuram felt his little strength leaving him.  The sailor grappled with him, muscles made hard and tight from years of hoisting sails easily keeping Ashuram at bay. They strained against each other's strength, effectively at an impasse.

"I'm going to take that knife and smash it up your-" the sailor started to snarl, eyes scant inches from Ashuram's own.

"By the seven hells!  Somebody stop them!"  Someone cried, interrupting the sailor's threat.

Ashuram went limp in the sailor's grasp suddenly, his substantial weight making the sailor grunt in surprise and loosen his hold for just a split second before he realized it was a ruse.  That was all the time Ashuram needed.  Coming to his feet, he efficiently hooked his fingers around the sailor's ears and drove the man's face into his knee.  The sailor cursed, blood seeping from a suddenly split lip.  Coolly, Ashuram pressed his thumbs against the man's eyes, his fingers still hooked around the man's ears.

The black knight felt strong arms encircle his own and pull him forcibly away from the man who had stolen his boots.  For a moment he thought about struggling.

"Easy there, wild man," a voice said warningly by his ear in a familiar, friendly-sounding, blunt accent.  "Just let it go."  Ashuram looked up into the eyes of the sailor who had spoken to him earlier in the voyage, and sky blue eyes met frigid black ones.  Ashuram let the man pull him away; there was little else he could do.

It took more men to hold the sailor back.  Now that there was a crowd, he had grown fierce, lunging towards Ashuram in the surety that he was being held securely back.

"I'll kill the bloody son of a bitch!" He kept saying savagely.

Ashuram freed himself from the sailor's hold with minimal effort and straightened, composing himself.  _Ridiculous_, he thought in some dismay.  _When did a pair of boots become worth this much?_  Low….I've fallen low.

The Captain arrived, face red with contained anger.

"What the hell is going on here?" He demanded, looking from Ashuram to the sailor.  His eyes narrowed as they sized Ashuram up.

"Ask him," the sailor sneered after delivering a viciously derogatory comment about Ashuram's parentage, jutting his chin in the pale man's direction.  "He's the one trying to kill people with butter knives."  The sailor wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand roughly.

"That true?" The Captain asked, in a deceptively casual voice.  Ashuram crossed his arms, standing easily in a position of relaxation he forced himself into.

"He is wearing my boots," he said in a quiet voice, his words quite clear.  A crowd, sensing trouble, had gathered, and Ashuram suspected nearly the entire crew was watching the spectacle unfolding in the hold.

"Well?" The Captain said, swinging his blunt head to look at the other sailor.

"Didn't see his name on 'm," the man offered lamely, fidgeting, sucking his lip.  The Captain sighed, looking ferociously annoyed.

"Thief's the worst kind of rat to have aboard," he said, giving the sailor a disdainful look.  "But you," he continued, swinging round to glower at Ashuram, "I knew you were trouble the moment I clapped eyes on you.  The country your kind comes from I hope never to find. Get both of their sorry asses up on deck.  Twenty lashes for the both of them." 

He could not even manage to be angry at the Captain's words, but instead felt a glum sort of resignation.  It had been almost fifteen years since he had been whipped like a common page or a criminal, and he supposed he ought to feel indignant.  Instead, he merely let himself be shepherded up to the deck by the sailors.  He had no energy to feel anything.

"Face front," the blue-eyed sailor advised him as they congregated around the main mast.  "If you take the lashes on your back, you won't sleep until we get to Alania."

"Why do you care?" Ashuram wondered.  He was not defensive, merely curious.  The sailor shrugged.

"I don't, particularly," he said.  "But if you die on board, that's damned bad luck.  From the looks of you, man, you could use all the sleep you can get.  And we could use all the good luck we can get."  Ashuram nodded.  He appreciated the man's bluntness far more than he would have any offer of friendship.

He allowed them to strip his tunic off, making a markedly calm comparison to his fellow offender.  The sailor being forcibly stripped to the waist beside him was busy struggling, yelling epithets and curses, most of them directed toward Ashuram.

When Ashuram's tunic was off, somebody whistled at the sight of the pale, gaunt body.

"By the Goddess," one of the sailors said disgustedly, "did they raise you in cave, or don't they have sun where you're from?"  Ashuram looked down at himself and felt almost shocked at the sight of his protruding ribs and the dark blue shadows in the deep, curved well beneath his ribcage.   Muscles like finely strung fibers stretched across his bones tautly, but it was an ashen body that looked weakened and pallid.  He hardly recognized it.  He wondered how long, exactly, he had been down in the deep caves beneath Marmo.  The knowledge that he should very well be dead rested heavily on him.

There was something of a watchful stillness, and he noticed that furtive stares were being directed at his throat.  Suddenly Ashuram felt like cursing himself for a fool.  Pirotess' pendant still lay about his throat, and in the scuffle he had forgotten about it.  It was not like him to forget such things, and he felt furious at himself.  There was no way he would have peace on this ship now; they would surely try to steal that pendant from him at the first opportunity.

Both he and the other offending sailor were tied to large wooden gratings so they couldn't flinch away, escape, or collapse, their backs against the splintery wood.  It looked as though the Captain himself would deliver the lashes, for he held the leather cat o' nine tails casually in one thick hand as he made his way to the mast, face stormy and deep set eyes glittering with enmity.

"Alright," the man said with an impatient breath, "let's get this bloody business over with."

                                                                                *              *              *

                Oh and one more thing…Pirotess really doesn't make much more of an appearance in this story.  She's dead!  Don't kill me!  Maybe I'll write a Piro/Ash story next…hmm…


	5. Escape

I don't own 'em, I just make 'em dance, that's all

I don't own 'em, I just make 'em dance, that's all.  Enjoy Responsibly.  Some Side Effects, Such As Drowsiness or the Insatiable Desire To Read More May Occur.  Do Not Read And Drive At The Same Time. Thank you.  

Otherwise, enjoy. J    

                                                ****Chapter Five: Escape

                                Ashuram lay gently swinging in his hammock, rocked by the motion of the ship borne by the Eastern Sea.  The hold was quiet, save for the contented snores of the sailors all around him and the creaking of the beams and planks against the resistance of the water.  Every so often, he could hear footsteps crossing the deck above as the sailors on watch made their rounds.

                                He could not sleep.  He had been dozing fitfully, trying to get comfortable in his hammock, and now he was awake.  Sleep lay thickly on him, pulling at his eyelids and making his body heavy.  His mind drifted lethargically, but could not seem to find the hidden pathway to slumber.

                                The whip wounds burned with a constant,  acid convergence across his chest and ribs, reaching down as far as he could retreat and pulling him back to wakefulness and awareness of the pain.  Even the slight motion of his breathing chaffed his shirt uncomfortably against the thin slash marks.  He almost wanted to take his shirt off, but was afraid the salt air would sting even more.  He did not fidget, either, knowing that any motion on his part would make the wounds flare painfully.

                                _I could use some wine_, he thought drowsily.  _Kanon burgundy._  Lots and lots of it….  

                                "He won't fight back if we slit his throat first."  

                Ashuram came fully awake in the darkness, blinking in sudden alertness.  It had been a whisper, barely audible above the sound of the waves, but he had heard it.  He listened intently, trying to locate the source of the whisper, pain forgotten and nerves strung tautly on edge.  

                                "He doesn't have even a knife, now," the whisper came again.  "What?  Don't you _know_ how much that little Elven trinket would be worth?"    Ashuram could not hear the other man's reply, but the first man – there was something about his whisper that just barely fell into the register of audibility, and Ashuram could make out what he was saying.

                                He began to try and think of a way to elude them, and his sleepy mind refused to come up with any idea.

                                "He looks like a half-starved water rat.  Between the two of us, he can't put up much of a fuss."  Again, he could not hear the response, but the first man spoke again soon after:

                                "Simple.  We'll slit his throat and dump him overboard.  The Cap'n will never mind, and we'll be rid of the pale spook.  No one'll miss the eerie bastard.  Come on; we'll do it now, while he's sleeping."  

                                Strain though he might, he could not hear anything after that.  There was a long pause, measured out by the beats of his heart.  At last he wondered if he had really heard it at all.

                                _If I were dreaming…._, he thought to himself, starting to get drowsy again.  

                                The sound of a soft footfall not far away brought him back to full awareness once again, and he just barely stopped himself from opening his eyes, making himself stay perfectly still.  He kept his breathing deep and even, as though he still slept on oblivious.  

                                The footfall stopped by his bed.  There was a pause that seemed to take forever, and then suddenly he heard the sound of a knife being drawn.

                                He opened his eyes to see the faint glint of light spilling down from the deck illuminate the edge of a knife, and beyond that, eyes flickering in the gloom.  Before the sailor could even make a sound, Ashuram grabbed the blade of the knife that was descending for him and brought his foot around to kick the man in the crotch.  

                                It was a weak kick that had hardly any leverage, but the sailor had not been expecting it, and grunted in sudden pain, starting to double over.  Ashuram sat up, trying to pull the knife from the sailor's grip, but the man recovered enough to struggle with him.

                                "Oi,"  the sailor hissed to someone behind Ashuram, "what in the seven hells are you waiting for?"   Ashuram could only glance over, but he saw another shadowy figure waiting in the gloom to rush in and attack.  Ashuram did not think he could handle two at a time.  He quickly let go of the knife, and, dropping, swept a leg out and dropped the sailor to the planks.  The man fell with a muffled thud, grunting, and then Ashuram was on him, driving his heel against the man's wrist to make him release the knife.  The sailor did so with a sharp hiss of pain, and Ashuram snatched it up and slit his throat quickly.  

                                The man gasped, a quiet, wet sound, and Ashuram saw red come to the man's lips.  Ashuram took his knife, and turned to face the other figure, crouching.

                                There was no one there.  The other man had fled, probably gone to inform the Captain that one of the sailors had been killed.  Ashuram turned, gazing down at the dead sailor briefly.  He doubted the Captain would allow him to get away with a mere lashing for this one.  He wouldn't put it past the Captain to keelhaul him or even throw him overboard.  As close as they had come to land, the fresh blood of his wounds would draw sharks and other nasties he could not hope to escape.  

                                He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth against the pain of the whip lashes, and straightened.

                                Knife clenched in his hand, Ashuram made his way carefully up onto the deck.  His feet were bare and silent against the rough, sea-cured wood.  The night was a bright one; the moon was nearly full, and the stars shone with cold brilliance, looking close enough to touch.  Cautiously, he looked over the port side and saw the dark, looming shape of land in the distance.  

                                He had no idea what country it was that he was looking at.  The ship had been within sight of land for the past two days or so, and they were following the eastern coast up to Alania.

                                "Psst," he heard someone hiss, and whirled, knife in motion before rational thought had taken over.  A strong hand gripped his wrist, pausing the downward motion of his knife briefly.  He realized it was the blonde sailor.

                                "Don't kill me," the man warned, and let go of Ashuram's wrist.  "Look, the captain's dingy is hanging in the stern.  I'll help you cut its moorings.  You can escape in that."

                                If he could make it to shore…  Ashuram nodded.

"Why?" He asked the man.  The sailor grinned.  

"It's only a matter of time before my greed overcomes my innate caution and I try to steal your golden charm," he whispered.  "I saw what you did to Felg, and I don't need another orifice.  Besides, we don't always do things we know the reasons for.  And if we stand here shooting the shit, you're going to be caught.  Come on."  He pointed to where the dingy was stowed, gesturing for Ashuram to follow.  Mystified as to the man's actions, Ashuram followed.

They made their way back into the stern of the ship, where the Captain's dingy was stowed, tied down tightly against the rolling of the deck.  Ashuram could hear movement elsewhere on the ship, and knew they were probably looking for him.  He did not have much time.  Moving quickly, the sailor moved to saw through the ropes that stowed the dingy and cut the covering free, pulling it aside hastily.  When it was  hanging free of the deck, they pulled the rope that lowered it over the side, grunting at the effort.  The dingy splashed down into the dark water below, and began to drift away in the wake of the ship.  

                                "The stern!" Ashuram heard a voice calling.  "In the stern!" 

"Hurry up!" The sailor urged him.  "Go!" Without looking back, Ashuram launched himself over the side of the ship and landed ungracefully in the dingy, barely making his target.  He nearly capsized the dingy and came close to losing the oars in the process.  For a moment he lay curled in the bottom of the boat, panting with effort and dizzy with pain.  Above him, the dark shape of the frigate slipped away from him.  He saw sailor's faces appear over the side of the ship, calling out curses to him that were lost in the sound of the ocean, the figures waving their small fists at him getting further and further away.  He could not make out the blonde sailor's face at this distance, and at last gave up.

                                For awhile, he wanted nothing more than to lie there and sleep, but he made himself sit up and look around.  He was on a very small craft in the middle of a very large ocean, and the bumpy darkness of land looked very far away.  He sighed, and unshipped the oars.  Turning the boat so that he faced out to open sea, he began to row.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *  

                                If the tide hadn't turned with him instead of against him, Ashuram doubted he would have made it.  He had fallen into exhausted slumber towards morning, slumped over the oars, and not even pain could keep him awake.  When he woke again, it was to the feeling of the dingy grating against solid ground.  Blearily, he pulled himself upright, blinking in the morning sun, and looked around.  

                                The boat was floating a few yards from shore, caught in the shallows as the tide pulled in and out, tossing the boat to and fro.  He rubbed his face, trying to chase exhaustion away, and stretched gingerly against the stiffness that gripped his shoulders like a vise.  Straightening pulled at the wounds across his ribs and he hissed at the sting.  Trying to ignore it, he realized he needed to get to shore before the tide took the boat back out to sea again.

He had no reason to keep the boat, and so he stepped out of it, into a cold ocean that immediately drenched him to the knees.  Slogging through the water and wet sand, he struggled to get to shore.  The tide alternately pulled at his legs and pushed him forwards, keeping him on the verge of stumbling with nearly every step.

                                When he at last reached the narrow, rocky shore, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping great gulps of air, sweat slipping down his face to drip off of the end of his long nose.  Or were they tears?  He could not tell.

                                _I could just lay here_, he thought to himself.  _I could just lay here, and not get up again._  I don't have to get up.  There's nowhere to go.

                                "You've got more lives than a cat, you slippery bastard," he heard Lord Beld's rough, rude voice reverberate in his ears.  It was something Lord Beld had said to him a long time ago, before the war.

                                "Apparently," Ashuram muttered in agreement.

                                "There must always be a balance," it was Karla's voice he heard now, smooth and cool and ancient, sounding ever so smug in her own knowledge.  

                                "So you can hedge your bets, you old bitch, and play at trying to make the future," he replied in a low snarl.

                                It was only then that he realized he was talking to voices in his head.  Appalled at himself, he sat down on the sun-warmed pebbles and took several deep breaths, clearing his head.  _I'm not going crazy,_ he thought determinedly to himself.  _Wagnard was crazy…._  I'm not taking his path.  Oh, Hell.  

                                When he felt calmer and less delirious, Ashuram stood up again.  His head felt very far away from the ground.  He needed to find fresh water, and food.  After that, he did not know.  He steadied himself, and started westward.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                He had been hearing the sound of a stream for what seemed like hours.  He could not tell if he were imagining it or not, for it seemed no matter which direction he turned, it always seemed to be just out of sight but almost at hand, if he could only manage to find it before it slipped away again.

                                When he at last did find the stream, he slogged into it without any restraint and nearly submerged himself in his eagerness to drink.  He drank like an animal, putting his face to the water and sucking it between his teeth in noisy gulps.  The water was cold and sweet, and tasted incredibly fresh after so many days at sea.   When he was finished, he wiped his dripping face against his sleeve.  Getting to his feet again, he continued walking.

                                _What's happening to me?_ He thought vaguely to himself.  _Where am I going?_  What am I becoming?

                                "You are the Sword Bearer, My Lord," Pirotess' voice said, soft and sweet, in his ears, and he sighed.

                                "I am lost," he corrected her.  "Pirotess.  It seems I will join you sooner than we thought."  

                                "There is a different path waiting for you," her voice came again.  "What is meant to be, will be."

                                "Speak more plainly!  What is meant to be?"  He demanded, and there was silence.  He realized again he had been talking to voices that were coming from his own delirium, and closed his eyes with a sigh, shaken.  

                                _How Wagnard would laugh to see this_, he thought, this time silently.  _The Black Knight, little more than a crazed hermit wandering through…Gods know where._  

                                With nothing else to do, he kept walking.

                                


	6. The Stranger

All Lodoss© characters are not mine

All Lodoss© characters are not mine.  I'm simply borrowing, see, they're treated gently (well….FAIRLY gently at any rate…) and will be returned in complete working order at the end of all these shenanigans.  Veris© and the villagers of Vesper© are mineJ and they're not for sale or trade.  (n_n) 

  

                                                                ****Chapter Six:  The Stranger

                                The wind that blew tendrils of light coppery hair gently across her face brought with it the clean, salt smell of the sea, and Veris breathed in the faint briny scent appreciatively.  She sometimes forgot how close Vesper lay to the Eastern Sea.  On days like this one, when the wind blew from the east, she remembered that the ocean was only a day's walk away.   The smell invigorated her, brought back good memories of the seaside village she had lived in when she had taken her Healer's training, and Veris had a smile on her face as she stood deep in her own thoughts.

                                It was a beautiful morning, clear and cool.  The sky looked vast and far away, the blue of it pale with distance and speckled with small, wispy clouds.  The wind tugged softly at the braid she had tied back haphazardly with a spare length of leather, gently unraveling it, and Veris tucked the stray strands behind her ears firmly.   

                                The mare snorted and bobbed her head impatiently, drawing Veris out of her contemplation, and the half-Elf realized she'd been standing with the harness in her hands for several minutes lost in thought.  She patted the mare gently with a chuckle at herself.   She resumed fastening the cart harness onto the old horse, tightening the buckles around the mare's chest.  As Veris passed by the mare's shoulder, the horse ducked her head quickly, her ears flat, darting as if she would deliver a sound nip to the Healer.  Veris slapped her away calmly, no longer intimidated by the feint.

                                "Crotchety old thing," she muttered to the mare, who went back to looking untroubled and calm, her ears relaxed and facing forward without any sign of malice.  Veris shook her head at the mare's incomprehensibility, attaching the harness to the small cart.  The horse stood relaxed, weight on three legs, one hind leg cocked as though she were contemplating kicking Veris into the next village.

                                "You really are insufferable," Veris told the horse, tapping her firmly on the flank to show her she'd seen and did not think it was as funny as the horse seemed to.  The mare shifted her weight obligingly with a long-suffering sigh.  

                                The harnessing of her horse completed, the Healer paused.  There was a basket in the back of the cart, just below the driver's seat, and it was filled with creams, ointments and potions.  Veris was going into town to buy groceries.  Or rather, she was going in to town to trade for groceries.  Most of the things she was bringing in were simple: creams to help heal cracked, winter-dry skin or to put on cuts to make them heal without infection.  There were also some sore throat and fever remedies, for Spring always meant colds and influenza.  

                                She suspected she could have someone come and deliver everything she needed to her door, but Veris liked going in to town to do her grocery shopping.  Vesper was a small town in population, but the town itself was actually very large and spread out: most of the families lived on large farmlands.  Veris' nearest neighbor was a twenty-minute ride away, and that was if her mare was going her usual brisk trot.  She didn't mind being on her own, but it got lonely sometimes.  Often it was days before someone needed her services or came by to pay her as Lira had done.  

                                Giving another look to the sky and sighing happily to herself, Veris vaulted up into the driver's seat of the wagon.  Swinging her sword out of the way with a practiced motion, she sat and took the reigns.

                                "Alright, old girl," she told the mare, giving the reigns a gentle snap, "let's go."

                                For a moment the horse looked as though she would be stubborn, but the truth was, the mare liked going into town.  Veris sometimes thought the horse missed the excitement of the battlefield, and was glad for a change of scenery from the old, dusty barn and the chicken-filled barnyard.  The mare started forward, pulling gamely on the harness, and was soon heading down the wagon path towards the village center at a cheerful, purposeful trot that seemed to be her normal speed of motion.  The mare was too impatient to walk.

                                The ride to town was actually not a very long one, but if she had walked, it might have taken the better part of the morning to reach the store.  She enjoyed the ride to town immensely when the weather was nice.  Alania was a beautiful country, and the rolling hills reminded her of the village she had grown up in.  Veris whistled a jaunty tune to herself as the mare trotted, her small, hard hooves making a rhythmic clopping sound on the hard packed wagon route.   

                                Before long, the houses grew closer together, and Veris had arrived in town.  She smiled to herself as she regarded the heart of Vesper.  It consisted of the general store, a tiny town hall, and a blacksmith's shop.  As Veris pulled up to the general store, she could hear the blacksmith hard at work, the hammer ringing against the anvil as he, or she – the blacksmiths for Vesper were married and both equally skilled at metalwork – beat a shape out of molten iron.  

                                Veris hopped down out of the cart, and tied the mare's reigns to the post outside the store.  Hooking the basket with her arm, she went up the worn, dusty steps to the store and let herself in.

                                "Welcome," Veris heard the shopkeeper call from the back as the door swung shut.  "Be right with you."  

                                Veris nodded, although she doubted the shopkeeper could see her, and looked around the store.  It was not big, as far as stores went, but for Vesper it was quite sizable.  Everything from saddles and plowing equipment to yards of cloth and dry goods were arranged with dusty neatness inside the store.  The sweet smell of leather and sawdust mixed with the dry smell of grain always made Veris feel at ease.  

                                Veris heard the floorboards creak and looked up to see that the shopkeeper had spotted her.  

 "Healer Veris!" The older woman greeted her immediately with a warm smile.  "We haven't seen you downtown in weeks!"  Veris smiled to herself at the thought of the heart of Vesper being called 'downtown', but kept her amusement to herself.

                                "Goodwoman Cassan," Veris said to the tall, ruddy-faced woman that ran the store.  "It's good to see you again as well."  

                                "What have you brought us today?" The Goodwoman asked animatedly, inviting Veris up to the counter so that the Healer could set down her basket.  "I must say, Healer, that your creams and ointments are extremely popular this time of year.  The last jar was gone days ago, and everyone's been wondering when you'd bring us some more."  Veris smiled, enjoying the woman's friendly chatter. 

                                "Sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, taking her small jars out of the basket and placing them carefully on the counter.

                                Goodwoman Cassan was a tall, grey haired woman with dark, bright eyes that never failed to remind Veris of a sparrow.  She had the habit of cocking her head to listen to people too that was also very birdlike, and Veris could only feel affection for the grandmotherly older woman.  

                                "These'll be gone in a week," the Goodwoman said cheerfully, holding one of Veris' sore throat remedies up to the light to admire the consistency.  "Seems like everybody has the sniffles lately.  I'll probably take one for my husband, poor man.  You'll have to bring me some more soon."

                                "Ah," Veris said with a grin, "but I have to stay in business myself."  The Goodwoman laughed.

                                "Fair," she replied.  "Would you like your usual order this week?"  Every two weeks or so, Veris came to the store to buy things she could not trade for with her neighbors: things like flour, corn, sugar, honey, and the spices and herbs she couldn't find simply growing wild around her own house.  Veris suspected it amused the fiercely self-sufficient villagers that their Healer did virtually no farming of her own, but then perhaps she was outside the realm of speculation by virtue of being half-Elven.  

                                Veris nodded to the shopkeeper, who brought out the list she kept under the counter for the Healer.  Eyeing the things on the list, the Goodwoman began to move about the store purposefully, gathering the paper-wrapped goods carefully in her strong arms like children.  

                                The door to the shop swung open and closed again, and Veris looked to see who had come in.

                                "Morning, Goodwoman," the man filling the door frame called.  He saw Veris and grinned.  "Morning, Healer."    Veris grinned back.

                                "Morning, Garn," she said to the blacksmith's oldest son, whose smile stood out a brilliant white against a dark face smeared even darker with black soot and perspiration.  "Long time no see."   He had come to deliver wood chips to her barn only a few days ago.

                                "Morning, Garn," the shopkeeper echoed, and then she made a noise of exasperation.  "Just look at you, Garn Dorval," she said with fine indignation.  "Have you been making horseshoes or playing in soot all day?  Don't touch anything!"  Garn grinned unrepentantly, the soot hiding his youth, and put his hands up placatingly.

                                "I'll keep them where you can see them," he promised.  "I just came over because I noticed the Healer's cart at the store-"  He was suddenly cut off as a small figure pelted through the shop door, came up against Garn's considerable bulk, and bounced off, dazed.  Veris could not help but laugh to herself at the sight of Garn's younger brother shaking his head in befuddlement.  

                                Garn laughed, looking down at the boy.  "Jem.  Watch where you're going, half-pint," he said good naturedly.  The boy grinned up at him.

                                "Watch where you're standing, giant," the boy replied impudently.  He was equally streaked with smithy grime, his hair sticking up in sweat-matted spikes, giving him a startled look.  He caught sight of Veris and waved.

                                "Morning, Healer," he said.  "Can I give some carrots to your horse?"  Veris nodded before she thought.

                                "Mind her, though," she said hurriedly as an afterthought, even as the boy turned to slam the door open, "she bites-"  but he was gone, the door swinging shut firmly behind him.

                                "Don't worry, Healer," Garn said, well-acquainted with the mannerisms of Veris' horse.  "He's meaner than your horse by a long shot.  He'll be fine."  Veris chuckled and shook her head, shrugging.  

                                "The pair of you," Goodwoman Cassan said, scolding, although it was belied by the smile she tried unsuccessfully to hide.  "Ruffians."  

                                The door to the shop opened again, and Veris half-expected to see Jem pelt through it once more.  Instead another village woman came in, smiling as she caught sight of the half-Elf.

                                "Morning, everyone," the woman said, brushing dust off of her sleeves and reaching up a hand to pat her dark hair.

                                "Good morning, Goodwoman Mirelle," Veris replied.  She looked around at the store that seemed to have rapidly filled with people.  "You seem to have quite a crowd today, Goodwoman Cassan," she observed after a moment.  The Goodwoman smiled.

                                "You're good for business, Healer," she replied.

                                "And besides, everyone wants to hear about how you saved Lira last week," Garn put in, wandering over to the counter.  At a warning glance from Goodwoman Cassan, he put his hands up out of danger of touching the counter, trying his best to look inoffensive.  

"Well, I had hoped to hear about that," Goodwoman Mirelle admitted, also drawing closer.  "When you live in a small town like Vesper, anything out of the ordinary seems exciting."  Veris laughed at their unapologetic forthrightness, and tried to elbow her sword behind her and out of sight.

                                "Yes, I heard you fought off a pack of kobolds," Goodwoman Cassan added, putting down the foodstuffs she had found for Veris and leaning across the counter eagerly.  "Who knew our Healer was such a swordfighter!"

                                "Well, it certainly wasn't a pack," Veris said, and it wasn't modesty that compelled her to speak but a desire for truth.  "It was only two-"

                                "Two!" Goodwoman Mirelle said, looking horrified.  "And you fought them by yourself?"  Veris began to feel her cheeks warm in embarrassment; she hated it when people made a fuss about her.

                                "It's not as if they were Orcs," Veris said.  "Kobolds aren't much smarter than dogs."  

                                "Yes, but most people would think twice about fighting two of them at once," Garn said.  

                                "Well, I-" Veris began, but she was not to be given a chance at modesty.

                                "The way Lira tells it, the whole thing lasted less than a minute," Goodwoman Cassan said.

                "Surely she exaggerates-" Veris tried again.  

                                "She said they didn't stand a chance," The shopkeeper added.  Veris could only laugh helplessly, seeing she was greatly outnumbered.

                                "If you've already heard the story from Lira, I don't need to tell it twice," the half-Elf said in bemusement, shaking her head.  

                                Whatever else might have been said was interrupted as Garn's younger brother burst back into the store, looking wide-eyed with agitation.  

                                "Easy there," Garn said.  "If you slam Goodwoman Cassan's door off its hinges, guess who'll get to fix them?"  

                                "Is there something the matter?" Veris asked the boy, noting his bewildered look  He shook his head, shrugging.

                                "I don't know, Healer, but there's a strange-looking man coming down the street.  He's got a knife!  I think he's talking to himself and he walks all zigzag.  He looks…"  Jem hardly got the chance to finish as this sudden piece of news galvanized the adults in the store to motion.  They pushed through the door out onto the porch of the shop to see what the boy was talking about.

                                The mention of the knife had caught Veris' attention first, and all she could think was that a soldier, drunk and perhaps disgruntled, had somehow wandered from Kanon into the peaceful village of Vesper.  She could see her mare's ears pricked, the dark eyes looking intently down the main street at a figure that was, indeed, not walking straight but staggering as though the slightest wind would fell him.  The mare had a good instinct for spotting trouble, and Veris suddenly had a bad feeling.

                                "Jem," she heard Garn say behind her in a somber voice, "go and get Da or Mam, ok?  Tell them to come out here."  The boy ran off across the street, heels kicking up dust.

                                "I don't like the look of that," Veris muttered to herself, her hand going instinctively to her sword.  She could feel the cold waiting to descend on her, the distant cruel logic of battle trying to settle a false calm over her thoughts.

                                "Healer," she heard someone say in alarm behind her, and realized she had walked down the steps to the store and stood in the road, watching the man stagger slowly closer.  

                                It was an ominous, odd sight that met her eyes as she studied the figure.  Even from here she could see that it was a man, but of what country she could not tell.  He was very tall and his face, Elven-pale, floated between the pitch black of his hair and the black he was dressed in from head to foot.  Not even the cloak he wore could hide the leanness of him.  There was a knife clenched in his right hand, sticking out like some sort of strange claw from the shadow of his cloak.  She could hear him mumbling to himself, a bass rumble that rose and fell in words she could not make out.  She felt as though she were watching some sort of macabre spirit or specter raised up by a dark mage, made to shamble about on the whim of some strange spell.  

                                "What do you make of that?" Garn asked, from behind her, sounding slightly grim.  Veris shook her head.

                                "Don't know," she said.  "Maybe a Kanon soldier, drunk and lost."

                                "This far north?" Garn asked doubtfully.  "Well, I suppose if the Kobolds made it this far, a soldier could, too."  

                                The man continued to stagger forward, none too steady.  Veris squinted at him.  There was almost something familiar about the man, but what it was she could not place.

                                "Halt, stranger," she called in a carrying voice.  "Halt, and state your business here."  The man ground to a stop, swaying on his feet.  She could barely make out his facial features at this distance, but he seemed to be squinting at her in some confusion.  

                                "State your business here," she repeated.  "We want no trouble with you."  

                                "Kanon….accent…?" She heard the man ask, and froze, shocked.  "…Grey…Healer's robes…No trouble."  Suddenly, the man dropped the knife and fell forward on his face to lie in the dust as if someone had hit him over the head with something heavy.  He remained absolutely motionless.

                                

                                Veris shared an uneasy look with the blacksmith's son, and started forward towards the man.  Behind her, she heard Garn move forward with her, unwilling to let the Healer go alone.

                                Veris kicked the knife away from the man, her hand on her sword.

                

                                "Help me roll him over," she instructed the young man, who nodded and bent.  Between them, they rolled the tall, dark-clad man over so that his pale, dusty face was visible.  Frowning, Veris studied him.

                                The man was wan and gaunt, shadows making deep smudges at his sharp cheekbones and half moons of exhaustion under his closed, dark-lashed eyes.  The beginnings of a beard on the pinched face served only to heighten the gauntness of his sharp-angled face.  His  arching brows and hair were in stark contrast to the pallidity of his skin.  The hair was matted and tangled, and the clothes he wore were quite the worse for wear.  The cloak seemed incongruous with the simplicity of his clothing, almost like a symbol of office, and Veris could not help but wonder briefly if he had stolen it.  

                                Still, there was something about him that pulled at Veris' memory, although she could not bring it up.  

                                "Looks like a Marmoan to me," Garn said, spitting the word.  "Dark hair, pale skin.  Those aren't soldier's boots, though."  He kicked the sole of one of the boots the man wore, and Veris saw that they were the only non-black things the man wore.  The boots were brown leather, cracked and worn, and looked more like the boots she had seen pages wear.   

                                Veris knelt to see if the man was still alive.  A pulse beat at his throat, and while it was slightly faint, it was regular.  She leaned to smell his breath, and could not detect any hint of alcohol there whatsoever.  She frowned down at him, and then stood to look at Garn.

                                "Whatever he may be," she said, "he's bad off.  Alcohol didn't make him walk like that.  We had better get him back to the clinic."  

                                "Healer, a _Marmoan-_" Garn began, but stopped as the petite half-Elf looked up and speared him with an emerald glare.

                                "Garn, Healers aren't supposed to see things like that," she said, indicating her robes.  "The grey means we Heal everyone.  Even those from Marmo.  If he is from Marmo.  He said something about Kanon…"  She trailed off, speculatively, and kept the rest of her thoughts to herself.  

                                "Healer Veris," a new voice said, and Veris looked over to see the Blacksmith had arrived.  He was a man that looked much like Garn, only older, and his shoulders were as yet still broader than those of his son.  The muscles that he had built over many years working in the forge were thick and bunched.  He was a wide, large man, and gave an immediate sense of gravity and calm that Veris always appreciated.

                                "Goodman Dorval," Veris said, nodding briskly.  "This man needs Healing.  I wonder if I could get you and Garn to lay him in the back of my cart."  The Goodman looked down at the man contemplatively.  He looked back up at her with a somber expression.  Veris could see he was plainly thinking the same thing his son had been thinking, but he said only:

                                "Very well, Healer.  Come on, Garn."  The two men hoisted the lean length of the pale man on their shoulders, and carried him to Veris' cart.  The mare snorted several times in the man's direction uneasily, although she never whinnied, which reassured Veris slightly.  If the mare had been made too ill at ease, she would not have abided the stranger's presence anywhere nearby.    

                                The man was too long to fit completely in the cart longwise, and so they propped him up so that he sat mostly upright, his back leaning against the driver's seat.  He slumped sidewise, obviously quite unconscious, and Veris could not help but feel a twinge of pity for the man because it looked like such an uncomfortable position.  

                                "Healer Veris," The Blacksmith said, "if you're taking him back to your infirmary, you're going to need help carrying him in.  Garn will go with you and help you."   Veris smiled.

                                "Thank you, Goodman Dorval," she said gratefully.  "That would be much appreciated."  The blacksmith's craggy face gave her a kind smile in return, and then he looked at his son.

                                "Do whatever the Healer needs you to do," he bid him, and Garn nodded, looking somber.  "I'll get the horse," Goodman Dorval said, and started back across the street towards the smithy.

                                "Healer, don't forget these," Goodwoman Cassan said, coming forward with her arms full of the things Veris had ordered.  The half-Elf laughed, hoping to diffuse the seriousness of the situation.  

                                "Thank you, Goodwoman," she replied, accepting the groceries and putting them in the cart beside the man.  "In fact, I had forgotten all about them."

                                She untied the mare from the post and climbed up into the driver's seat.  Before long, Goodman Dorval returned, leading a horse across the wagon route for Garn to ride.  

                                The little crowd that had gathered stayed to see them off, and Veris could sense their concern and intense curiosity.  She almost smiled to herself.  She would undoubtedly have a steady stream of curious visitors for the next week, or however long the stranger stayed.  Anything different was great for business, for better or for worse.  

                                "I'll be back in a couple of weeks," Veris called to Goodwoman Cassan, who waved.  Snapping the reigns, Veris urged the mare forward.  The mare strained under the added weight, but did not complain, and soon they were headed back towards the Healer's home.

                                


	7. Ash

Do I have to do this at the beginning of every chapter

Disclaimer:I do not own Lodoss nor do I own the established characters thereof.I do own Veris and the town of Vesper.And as always, if you like it or hate it – please tell me what you think! ^-~; 

**Chapter Seven: Ash**

They were silent as they rode out of town.Garn seemed lost in thought, and Veris found herself thinking about the man sprawled in the cart behind her.Occasionally she would glance over her shoulder at him, but he remained completely unconscious, head lolling and bouncing with the motion of the cart over the bumpy wagon path.

He had recognized her Kanon accent.She was not sure how he had known, for it had been many, many years since she had lived in Kanon.Yet he had commented on it immediately, before falling flat on his face in the dust.That had given her quite a shock.Not that there was anything wrong with being from Kanon, but it had been years since she had thought of herself as a Kanonite, and she certainly had never expected anyone to place her accent as being from that country.

Kanon.It had been a beautiful country, once, before the Dark Emperor of Marmo decided to take it in conquest.Veris stifled a sigh.It was no use thinking of things that no longer existed; the Kanon she once knew was gone, occupied now by an extensive Marmoan army that had efficiently and thoroughly taken over the southern-most country in Lodoss.She found herself gazing sidelong at the pale form slouched in the cart measuringly, and wondered if he were truly a Marmoan.

Even a small village like Vesper had suffered losses in the war against Marmo.If the stranger turned out to be Marmoan, did she owe the villagers an explanation for why she had to heal him?Veris glanced over at Garn, who was frowning to himself.

"Healer, you're right," he said at last.Veris raised her eyebrows at him.

"Right?" She asked."What about?"

"About him," Garn said, gesturing with his chin towards the cart."It doesn't matter where he's from, of course.I'm sorry."Veris smiled.

"You don't need to apologize to me," she said forgivingly."I don't like Marmoans any better than you.I simply do what a Healer must do."

"Lira mentioned you'd fought in the wars," Garn said, looking at her sideways.Veris nodded, half-smiling, recognizing his comment was a gentle prod for information.

"I did," she confirmed."I was recruited for my Healing skills in Valis to be a Healer for King Fahn's army."

"Is that where you learned to fight?" Garn asked curiously.

"Partly," Veris answered, shifting in the driver's seat to a more comfortable position.She looked over at Garn."What is this, my interrogation?"She asked it with a smile, however, which took the sting out of the mild rebuke.Garn grinned, looking unapologetic.

"Well, you have to admit you don't volunteer information freely," Garn said, wiping some of the grime off of his face with the back of his hand."Even though you've been in Vesper almost two years, we don't know much about you."

That was true, Veris reflected.She had always been close-mouthed about her past, and in Vesper it never seemed necessary to tell anyone her life's story.She shrugged.

"Did you get the sword in the war, too?" Garn asked after a moment persistently, and Veris gave him a wry grin.His good-natured curiosity was hard to resist.

"No, that was my father's," she said."I got it from him when I was about ten.It's actually the only thing of my parents I have, besides this Healer's robe."

"They've…passed on, then?" Garn asked, surprisingly gently for him.Veris nodded.

"They did," she said."A raiding party of army Orcs came through our village and burned it to the ground.My father was an excellent swordfighter, but even he couldn't have hoped to stand out against so many.My mother was a Healer, and all she knew was Healing magic."It was funny, Veris thought, that after so many years the horror of her parents' death could still haunt her.When she closed her eyes, she could still see the flames, bright and high against the night, and hear her mother's panicked voice telling her to run and hide herself.

She no longer felt such sorrow when she spoke about it, however, and her eyes were dry and her voice steady as she spoke.

"I'm…sorry to hear that," Garn said."I think I've made as big an ass out of myself today as I'd like to, Healer, so I'll stop being so nosy."He gave her a rueful grin and Veris laughed.

"I don't mind," she replied."Everybody's got a history, only some happen to be more uplifting than others, that's all.If you're truly interested, Garn, I'll tell you some day."

They arrived at the Healer's house before Garn could say whether or not he would take the Healer up on her promise, somewhat to Veris' relief.

"Alright, Healer," Garn said, as Veris slipped out of the driver's seat and tied the mare to the fence."Where do you wanthim?"He thumbed in the direction of the man in the cart.

"Let's bring him into the infirmary," Veris said."There should already be a bed ready.I'll get his feet."

"Right," Garn said.The young man put his hands under the unconscious man's arms and dragged him off of the cart.Veris picked up his feet, and struggling with the man's deadweight, they hefted him and carried him into the house.

Veris was extremely proud of her infirmary.It was rather small, even though it took up the first floor of the house almost entirely.She kept it spotless and neat, with all her herbs in their proper jars along the wall.There were only two beds, in case of an emergency, for most often she made house calls.Only once or twice had she ever had someone spend the night in the infirmary, and she had never needed both beds at once.Sunlight streamed into the infirmary now, making it look bright and welcoming.The smell of dried herbs and clean linen filled the place, and Veris could nothelp but be satisfied with the cozy room.

Together, she and Garn laid the man flat on one of the infirmary beds.Against the white linen, he looked even more deathly pale, the black clothes he wore like an interment shroud.

"The man's dressed for his own funeral," Garn muttered, echoing her own thoughts, taking a close look."Do you even think he'll last through the night?"

"Depends on what's wrong with him," Veris replied, trying to sound cheerful."Thanks for your help, Garn.Now shoo.I've got work to do."She grinned, and Garn laughed.

"Yes ma'am!" He said, offering her a mock salute."I'll just put the mare in her stall, shall I?"

"That would be extremely helpful," Veris admitted."Don't let her get you in the sights of her hind legs.Oh, and take a loaf of apple bread from the kitchen on your way out.Lira's mother made a basketful for me, and as much as I love apple bread…even I can't eat a mountain of the stuff."Garn chuckled.

"Be happy to," he said, and made himself scarce.

Alone with the unconscious man, Veris looked down at him, and sighed.

"Alright, man," she said, noting that even though he was tall and pale enough to be Elven, his ears were lacking points, "let's see what's wrong with you."Perfunctorily, she checked his pulse again.It was still constant, although no stronger.She felt his forehead and realized he was warm, although his cheeks were wan as ever.

Frowning to herself, Veris pulled back the man's shirt.Her eyes widened at the sight of the bony ribcage, stretched with taut muscle fiber like cables, and crisscrossed with several deep, angry red wounds that were distinctively lash marks.

"Hmm.Somebody didn't like you much," Veris observed, bending down to inspect the wounds.They were inflamed and some of them looked as though they were infected. 

"Let's get this shirt out of the way…oh, for the love of Marfa, why don't you use buttons like a normal person?" Veris demanded of the unconscious man, realizing the black tunic would have to be pulled over his head.For a moment she contemplated cutting the tunic off of him – it would certainly be easier.Then she decided whoever he might be, cutting his clothes to rags would probably not be very considerate.

Struggling to be gentle with the man's unwieldy deadweight, Veris managed to pull the shirt over the man's head.When it was off, she folded it carefully and placed it by the bed beside his cloak.

Going over to the pitcher of water she kept in the infirmary, Veris poured a little water into a basin.Rolling back her sleeves, she washed her hands thoroughly with a bar of lavender-scented soap one of the farmers had made for her.She dried them, and went over to her shelf of herbs and various assorted medicines.Humming to herself, she pulled several down, and returned to the bedside.

Veris sat in a chair by the bed and examined the man.He looked as though he had not eaten well in several days, and he was probably also dehydrated.Still, even considering that and the whip wounds, Veris was not sure they were enough to affect him strongly enough to send him into such a heavy unconsciousness.She frowned at the dark bruises hiding in the hollows of his ribcage.There were also dark bruises ringing his throat.He also was wearing a pendant of some kind around his neck, and Veris leaned forward to get a better look.It looked strangely feminine, and Veris recognized it almost immediately as something Elven.Veris wondered what the man was doing with it, when he obviously had nothing else of worth.Even the knife Veris had kicked away from him, she remembered, had been a standard issue knife, a simple thing that a foot soldier or a sailor might have carried.

Veris placed her hands an inch or so above the man's chest.Closing her eyes, she chanted a non-intrusive examining spell, probing with magic to see where the man's real wounds lay.

Veris opened her eyes a moment later, frowning with puzzlement.Something – or someone – had attacked this man with a dark spell that was far beyond her capacity to decipher, but she had no doubts as to the power of the spell.The man lying in her infirmary should be dead, of that she was certain.However, he was obviously not dead – and here was something here she did not understand.Something had come between this man and death, had kept him from sliding over the edge into eternity.It had not healed him, but it had kept him from dying.

She sensed something at work that was far beyond her experience.She doubted she could heal the man completely, but she would do what she could.Closing her eyes again, she began chanting the most inclusive Healing spell she knew.The warmth of the spell gathered in her hands, and she could almost feel them glowing.Laying her hands gently on the man's chest, she felt the warmth of the spell spread to his chilled skin.

A few moments later, Veris opened her eyes again, feeling drained.Working spells always left her that way.She had healed the man's internal injuries to the extent of her ability, but the whip wounds still needed tending to.Carefully, she cleaned them and treated the infections with salve.She removed the man's boots and set them by the bed. She pulled the covers up over the sharp-angled body, and left the man to sleep.

*******

Veris came back several times as the day waned to check on the man.He slept on, oblivious.Occasionally she woke him up enough to get him to take some water, although she doubted he was ever truly awake for his long black eyes never focused and he fell back into sleep soon afterwards.

He slept silently and hardly moved, save that one hand crept up to cover the pendant lying in the stark hollow of his throat.She saw that it was important to him and realized that he had not stolen it.Perhaps it had been a gift. 

When night fell she made him a clear broth that had no meat in it, only liquid.If he had been starved long enough, his stomach would reject the meat.Sitting by the bed, she tried to rouse him by shaking his shoulder.It was hard to pull him out of sleep.

"Oi," she said sharply, at last, and at that he looked up at her groggily.She saw his eyes were as jet as his hair, although they were flat and blank and seemed not quite conscious.They were bloodshot and bleary and he looked up at her as if he could not completely focus his gaze on her face.

"You need to eat this," she said more gently, and brought a spoonful of liquid to his lips.She thought he would take it, but he turned his head away, lying back on the pillow.

"Come on," she urged, trying to sound friendly, but he refused to be fed.Trying not to feel exasperated, she set the broth by the side of the bed to try again later, and went to make supper for herself.

When she came back almost an hour later, the man was fast asleep again, head lolled back on the pillow.The cup of broth was lying exactly where she had set it, save that it was completely empty.Veris shook her head in bemusement, and went to go build a fire.Night was coming, and the Spring evenings were still chilly.She would check back on the man when evening fell.

*******

Night had fallen when Veris returned to the infirmary to check on her patient.The lamp she carried cast long shadows in front of her.As she approached the man's bed, the lantern lit up his skin warmly and she could see there was some color in his cheeks again so that he no longer looked halfway through the threshold of the Forever Dreaming.His breathing was almost soundless; so quiet that could she not see his chest rhythmically pushing the sheets up and down evenly with each deep breath she would have guessed him to be beyond her aid.

She set the lantern down on the table by the bed, and went to light another one.With two lanterns flickering warmly, the deep-shadowed room looked quite cozy and was light enough that she could see what she was doing.She put the second lanternby the other side of the bed, and rolled up her sleeves carefully.

Veris pulled up her chair and sat by the man's side.She gently pulled the sheets back, hoping not to wake him if she did not have to, and looked down at the lash wounds.Meticulously, she daubed them with more healing salve, the familiar, slightly pungent odor wafting up from between her fingers as it was warmed by the man's skin.Under her hands the man's chest rose and fell evenly, muscles expanding and contracting with each breath.She paused thoughtfully, noticing the definition of his arms and shoulders, the lean expanse of his chest.Beside the fresh whip lashes, she could see a few pale, thin scars that were obviously very old crisscrossing his ribs jaggedly.This man was a fighter.She'd seen so many patients with the same long, spare musclesand similar scars not to recognize the build when she saw it.She guessed he was – or had been – a soldier.But for which side?

Veris screwed the lid back on the jar of salve and set it on the bedside table.Rubbing her hands together to disperse the pungent balm still on her fingers, she looked down at the man.Dark, uncombed hair snarled on the pillow, surrounding the pale angles of his face and spilling over his shoulders.The lamp light flickered off the pendant resting in the hollow of his throat, and Veris could not help but be fascinated with the simple gold ornament.She could not remember ever seeing anything like it before, and she wondered where it had come from.She reached out a careful finger to it, the small fringe of gold beads hanging off of it chiming faintly under the pressure of her touch.

Fingers closed around her throat suddenly, like a vise.Veris looked down to see narrow dark eyes looking up at her, flickering lantern light reflected in their depths.

Her hand went for her sword instinctively; his hand tightened painfully before loosening again, but the grasp stayed determined.

"Don't," he said in a low voice that verged on being inaudible.

She went very still.The grip was not enough to cut off her breath nor yet to bruise her skin, but she could feel the strength in the fingers despite the man's infirmity.Adrenaline made her heart beat painfully fast, and she could feel her pulse ticking strongly in her throat.Veris forced herself to be calm.Locking gazes with the man, she waited.

"What is this place?" The man asked.The pale length of his arm stretched between them, muscles taut.Veris did not answer.He asked her again, in the same low tone.

"I refuse to talk to you until you remove your hand from my throat," Veris said crisply.There.That didn't sound like fear talking at all.She hoped her racing pulse did not give her away too much.

The fingers tightened.Any more and she would have to struggle to draw breath.

"What is this place?" He repeated.There was no change of expression in the flat, cold eyes that were vivid in his wan face.

"Alania," the Healer said unwillingly."The village of Vesper."She could feel anger rising in her, the burn of it replacing the first cold rush of adrenaline that had washed through her.

The man seemed to pause and consider this, not taking his gaze off of her.Even more disconcerting was that he didn't seem to blink.

"Who are you?" The man asked after a moment.

"You see, of course, the grey robes I'm wearing," Veris said dryly, arching an eyebrow at him."Unless the Healer's Guild has gone and changed the color of our office, grey is still the Healer's color, I believe, man."Anger made her cocky.

"You carry a sword," the man pointed out, sounding completely unruffled by her rising ire.

"How nice of you to notice," Veris replied."I don't usually use it on my patients although in this case I may be forced to make an exception."

"How did I get here?" The man said, looking past her briefly, eyes scanning the infirmary, before coming back to rest on her face.If she had been more easily intimidated, she would have been alarmed by the intensity of his gaze on her face.She knew it was a fighting trick and ignored it, paying it back in kind as she studied him.

"I suppose you know better than I," Veris said."You were found weaving through town, muttering to yourself and brandishing a knife.You collapsed at my feet and I had you brought to my clinic to see if you could be salvaged."There was a moment that seemed to last forever, and then, finally, the man blinked.

"And?" He asked.Veris frowned, puzzled.

"And what?" She demanded.His thin lips curved upwards briefly, looking grim.

"Can I be salvaged?"If she didn't know better, she would have thought he was joking with her.It was her turn to blink, bewildered.

"Unless I cut your hand off and you bleed to death, you'll live," she said after a moment, looking pointedly at his arm.How easy it was to fall back into the blunt, no-nonsense speech patterns she had developed on the battlefield!

He relaxed his grasp, and his hand fell limply on the bed between them.His eyes drifted closed briefly, opened, and closed again, and Veris could see the strength of his fingers had been more willpower and bluff than actual strength.She let out a long, quiet breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

_This man is disturbing_, she found herself thinking._Maybe Garn was right…_

"What is your name?" The man asked, his eyes still closed.His voice was low and rough, grating over lassitude.

"Veris," she said, rubbing her throat."And yours?"

"Ash-" his voice seemed to catch in his throat suddenly as if someone had cut him off."It's Ash."

"Ash," Veris found herself repeating dubiously, and the man's eyes opened to look up at her face incisively.She did not think it was his real name, of course.She wasn't stupid.She returned his gaze coolly.

"Well, Ash, I think your introduction style leaves something to be desired," Veris said after a moment.She meant to sound prickly.

"A Healer with a sword," he said musingly, his voice faint." My dreaming and my waking have been…disordered.I mistook you for a soldier."

_Is that supposed to be some kind of apology?_, Veris thought, but the anger had fled.In truth, she herself knew that feeling very well, and she couldn't help but feel some sense of pity – despite herself – for the man._Face it Ver_, she thought to herself, _if you couldn't be empathetic, you wouldn't be in this job._

She opened her mouth to say something, but realized that the man – Ash – had fallen asleep.His head was lolled against his shoulder, lamplight shining on his closed eyelids.

Veris nearly smiled to herself wryly, and carefully pulled the blankets over him conscientiously.

_…And hell of a job it is, too._

Blowing out the infirmary lantern, she took the other one up and, in its sputtering light, made her way to bed.

She locked the door to her room carefully.

*******

When the Healer was gone, Ashuram opened his eyes.The room was dark; she had taken the lamp with her when she left.In the next room he thought he could see the glowing red embers of a dying fire banked for the night; it gave little light and provided only enough of a red glow to remind him somehow of the hungry red pit that had waited for him beneath the deep chasms in the earth in Marmo.He surprised himself by shivering suddenly as if a cold breath had blown across the back of his neck.

His eyes grew used to the darkness slowly and he looked around the clinic with sharp eyes.It was a small clinic, the shelves full of jars of varying sizes, and herbs hung from the ceiling to dry.In the darkness it appeared clean and neat, if a little cluttered.It was a far cry from the makeshift Healers' tents he had gotten used to seeing during the war with Valis.

The Healer had been in the war, of that he felt sure.She carried herself like a fighter, and he had no doubts the sword she wore at her hip had seen its share of use.Her calm, malachite eyes had shown nothing but anger – and that coolly – when he had caught her by the throat.She had not flinched away from his basilisk gaze, which even Lord Beld had been forced to look away from every now and again.She had looked very young – reinforced by her wide eyes and short stature, although half-Elves always looked younger than they were, and he guessed she might be his age, if not older.

Pirotess had been older than he, but time to Elves was not comparable to Human time.Pirotess had been alive many of his lifetimes before she had come to join the Marmoan army.

Pirotess.He reached up to touch her pendant, his eyes closing.He felt so far away from her now, the feeling of loss muted and dull.He had been through so much since she had gone, it almost seemed as though he had been another person then.Yet at the same time, he longed to see moonlight caught in the silver of her hair once more._If I have dreams tonight, let them be of her_, he thought to himself with a sigh, stirring gently beneath the sheets.

Ashuram settled down into the pillow and the blankets, breathing in the smell of clean laundry and pungent herbs comfortably.He felt, for the first time in a long time, safe.Even though he knew the Healer was suspicious of him and would undoubtedly be shocked to know to whom she was ministering to, he also realized that by the Healer's code she was bound to Heal him, even if he were the Devil himself.Which, he thought with dark humor, considering the Demon's power that had brought him back, might be close to the truth.

Yet he knew there would be no one to slit his throat in the night should his wariness falter, and he let his eyes drift closed with something close to a contented sigh.He hadn't beenexaggerating his weariness with the Healer when she had pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and left.Sleep reached for him, and he let it take him without a struggle.

***


	8. The Devil's Own Luck

Hmm…maybe this is more fun if you do it in an accent

Ok: Standard Disclaimer Applies.  I don't own any of 'em except Veris and the Vesper townsfolk.

At any rate, this is getting to be pretty long!  Yikes!  If you've stuck with it this far, thanks!  More to come! ^-~

                                                                ****Chapter Eight: The Devil's Own Luck

                                She dreamt  of an autumn night long ago in Kanon.

                                She dreamt the long night lit up by fire, the thunder of horses and the shrill battle cry of Orcs piercing the clear air.  She saw her father silhouetted by fire, the Elven blade glinting brightly as he raised it to defend his family.

                                She dreamt the desperate rush of her mother's robes and the sweet smell of her hands as she half pulled, half carried Veris to the barn.  The floorboards were pulled up, and Veris climbed down into the small, dark space under them.  She remembered her mother's face, pale and heavily lined with fear, telling her to hide in the barn as long as she could, and that she would be back for her very soon.  The floorboards came down between them, dim light seeping through the cracks.  Veris sat, wrapping her legs around her knees, and waited.

                                The smell of hay and horses floated down to her.  Safety.  She could not think of a better hiding place.  Beyond the barn, she could hear screaming and the roar of flames.

                                She dreamt the waiting in the darkness, palms clammy and heart racing.  There was a heavy footfall on the floorboards above her, and almost she sprung up, hoping it was her mother.  The footfall came again, too heavy to be her mother, and Orc scent drifted down to her.  She dreamt cowering in the dark, pulling herself into as small a crouch as she could manage.

                                She dreamt looking up through the cracks in the floor to see the dark shape of the Orc above her, ugliness illuminated by a flickering torch.  The mouth was filled with tusk-like teeth that curled out from under its lip, the nose porcine.  She could see the armor, dimly, and the Marmo sigil on the  breastplate stood out to her as if it made its own dirty light.

                                She dreamt the Orc casually tossing the torch into the hay stored along the wide aisle, and the pungent smell of burning dried grass soon filled her nose, setting her to muffle her coughing against her sleeve desperately.

                                She dreamt the barn burning above her, the Orc grinning down at her as he stood between her and freedom, keeping the floorboards down with his weight-

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                _Thud._

                                Veris awoke with a start in the darkness, heart thumping hard against her breastbone, bathed in a film of cold sweat.  Dreams, again.  Ugh.  She wiped her brow disgustedly against the arm of her nightgown.

                                Yet, something had awoken her, and she sat up in bed, listening.  Suddenly she remembered the man in the infirmary, and got to her feet.  She slipped a robe on over her gown, tying it loosely, and buckled on the Elven sword with a practiced, swift deftness.  Veris padded quietly down the stairs, her eyes adapting to the gloom  rapidly.  

                                There was Ash, leaning against the doorframe of her open front door, dark hair lit from behind by moonlight and the diffuse  predawn grayness of morning, his face catching the weak flickering of the fire still burning in the small kitchen.  His pale chest glistened with sweat, the whip wounds ugly in the dimness.  His hair hung by his face, arm up against the frame to support himself, his body frozen in mid-step.  His back was straight despite his obvious struggle to remain standing.  

                                "Ash?" She asked quietly, approaching.  She could hear him breathing heavily.

                                "Healer," he acknowledged, albeit faintly.  

                                "Are you alright?" She asked, with professional concern in her voice.  He nodded faintly.

                                "Stood up too fast."  The voice was clipped, unemotional.

                                "What are you doing?" Veris asked after a moment when he did not offer an explanation.  He looked at her over his shoulder, dark eyes thin and inscrutable.  

                                "Resting.  Not falling."  Veris wondered briefly if perhaps he was joking, but there was no humor in his face.  His sharp-angled face did not seem as though it were inclined to laughter.  There was too much stiffness around his thin lips and a coldness in his eyes that did not bode well for humor.  

                                "Ah," she said, "but where are you going?"

                                "The privy, when I find it," he said matter-of-factly.  For a moment Veris almost laughed, a grin pulling up the corners of her mouth, but she saw that he still looked quite serious, face unreadable to her.  Quelling her mirth, Veris nodded, attempting to look as grave as he did.

                                "Of course," she said, "I should have showed you earlier, I had not thought.  Lean on me," she said, offering her shoulder.  

                                "Not necessary," he said distantly.  Veris shrugged easily; he could suit himself.  He looked unwilling for a moment to let go of the door frame, but as she turned to wait for him, he stumbled forward after her.  Veris instinctively put a hand under his elbow to steady him.  She knew she was much stronger than she looked, and took his weight easily.   He did not thank her, but neither did he pull away.  Walking beside him in case he should stumble again, Veris led him around to the back of the house where the privy stood.

                                Walking side by side, Veris realized for the first time how tall the man really  was.  He towered above her; she did not even reach his shoulder.  

                                He also, she realized, smelled.  It was the rank smell of old sweat, unwashed hair and new exertion, and Veris' nose wrinkled despite herself.  Yech.  Ah well, she had smelled worse – much worse – on the battlefield, and she could certainly endure this.  She made a mental note to draw a bath for him the next day.   

                                "I think from here you can manage," Veris told him when they reached the privy house.  She gave him a blithely wry smile in the face of the look he shot her – hell, if he was going to wake her up in the early morning hours, he could suffer through her banter.  

                                On the way back, Veris put a hand under his elbow and took his weight on her shoulder without asking, and he did not resist but allowed her to keep him from stumbling.  She suspected it was pride that had made him refuse earlier.  She also had the suspicion that whoever this man was, pride was something he had in great quantity.  Perhaps that was why he seemed to have no sense of humor – there was no room for it.

                                "Well, Ash," she said to break the silence, "where are you from?"  She asked it lightly, but her green eyes were intense in the darkness.  He gave her a brief, inscrutable look.

                                "I was born in Kanon," he told her.  Veris nodded.  She somehow felt that wasn't the whole story, but she also felt relief that he had not said he was from Marmo.    

                                "It must be why you recognized my accent," she said.  

                                "Yes."   The attempt at conversation fizzled, and there was silence as Veris helped him back into the infirmary. 

                                Ash sat on the bed and sighed softly, unkempt hair hanging in dusty snarls past his bare shoulders.  Veris stuck a match and lit one of the hurricane lanterns she kept in the infirmary.  Bringing it over to the man's bedside, she said:

                                "Well, since I'm up, I might as well have a look at those wounds."  She set the lantern down.  Obligingly, Ash laid back on the bed, and kept still and quiet while she washed and dressed the whip lashes.  Veris was tempted to ask how he came by the angry, bloody welts, but prudence kept her tongue still.  Normally, people volunteered information about their wounds; she scarcely had to ask before people were telling her exactly what had happened.  Not this one, though.  He was about as talkative as a brick wall, and she thought his manners were in about the same category.  

                                "Where did you take your training, Healer?" Ash asked, as she was gently daubing soothing salve onto one of the welts.  His voice was surprisingly deep, she thought.  Even though he spoke quietly, his voice vibrated compellingly in the silence.  

                                "In Valis," she said, glancing up at him.  She couldn't tell if he was merely being polite or if he was actually curious.  His eyes were on her face, studying her impassively.  _Do you ever blink?_, she found herself wondering, looking back down at her work.  "I moved to Valis after Marmo began to invade Kanon."

                                "Ah," he answered merely.   There was a pause.  After awhile, he asked: "How did you come to be in Alania?"  _Aren't I the one who should be asking questions?_, Veris thought.  Bemusedly, she answered:

                                "Probably about the same way you did: I simply arrived.  I was a Healer for the Valisian army during the war, and when it was over…well, I had no where to go, so I packed all of my belongings on my mare and rode away from Valis.  I decided to stop the first place I found that I liked, and it happened to be Vesper."  She finished treating the wounds and closed the jar of salve.  She put it away on the shelf and went to go wash her hands in the basin.  

                                "You learned to fight in the war?" Ash's low, resonant voice floated to her as she washed up.  Veris gave him a measuring look over her shoulder.  _One warbird recognizes another_, she thought grimly.

                                "No," she said quietly.  She dried her hands on a nearby towel.  "I'm going to make some tea.  Do you want some?"  It was obviously a change of topic.

                                "Yes."  He nodded.  

                                "Very well; I'll be back shortly," she said, and left.  

                                _Who IS this guy_?, Veris found herself thinking as she went into the kitchen and stoked up the wood–burning oven so she could boil water on it.  

                                He carried himself like a fighter.  Perhaps like a soldier would.  Yet he spoke with authority, did not ask for things,  nor did he thank her.  Hmph.  Here was someone, she guessed, used to giving orders and having them obeyed promptly.  More like a knight or a general would act.  

                                That he had fought in the war, she had no doubt.  But for which side?  Kanon had been occupied by Marmo long before the war with Valis had begun – many of the Kanonites had fought for Marmo.  _It shouldn't matter, Ver, the war is over_, she told herself.  _War's over, Marmo lost._  Besides, Healers don't see that sort of thing, remember?  Don't be hypocritical.   

                                Yet at the same time, she couldn't help feeling as though she had seen the man before, somewhere…perhaps even on the battlefield.  She smiled to herself, unable to dredge it up.  _They say memory is the first to go…_  

                                When the tea was made, Veris cut up a loaf of apple bread and put it on the tray with the tea cups.  She carried it back into the infirmary, half-expecting her charge to be asleep.  Instead, lantern light reflected in his flat black eyes, which were wide open.  

                                "You should expect some visitors tomorrow," she told him with the hint of a smile, her good nature restored, as she put a mug of tea into his hands carefully.  He lifted his eyebrows slightly in a silent question.

                                "Vesper will be very curious about you," she explained.  "They'll want to see the stranger that collapsed in front of the general store."  He grimaced, and Veris wondered if it were because he did not want visitors or because she had reminded him of the circumstances behind his coming to her clinic.    

                                "Very well," he said, and sipped his tea.  _What a cool customer this man is._     

                                "Help yourself to apple bread," she told him with a grin.  "I have more than I could ever eat."  He did so.  It was obvious he was extraordinarily hungry, but he ate politely – almost daintily, as if he were at a formal dinner instead of lying in a bed, plate balanced on his knees.  Curious. 

                                "How long do you think it will take before I am back to full strength?" He asked quietly after a moment.  Veris shrugged.

                                "I healed most of the damage of the dark spell," she said casually, "but I don't know how long you had been traveling without food or water while dealing with such tremendous spell-damage."  She was watching for a reaction, but she was disappointed.  He simply nodded.

"However, you should be feeling better –stronger- with the next few days," Veris continued, and added scrupulously:  "Although, I don't mind telling you that, by all rights, you should be dead."

                                "Well I know it," he replied, with a trace of bitterness.  There was no explanation forthcoming.  Veris shook her head, confounded.

                                "You've got the devil's own luck, man, whoever you are," she said.  For the first time Ash smiled, a grim bearing of white teeth that had little, if anything, to do with humor.

                                "In a manner of speaking," he agreed.   

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *                              

                                Ashuram was watching the Healer watch him.

                                Her wide, sharp eyes were the cool, ancient color of a mossy pond, and twice as unfathomable.  There was no fear in her eyes when she looked at him.  She was completely unafraid and seemingly unaffected by the coldness in him that put others on edge so quickly.  What appeared to be a permanent sardonic smile made the corners of her full mouth twitch upward, both when she spoke and when her face was at rest, as it was now.

                                Not even Pirotess' cat-like golden eyes had been completely fearless when she had looked at him.   The thought came to him without warning, and he stopped himself before he reached up to touch the pendant around his neck.  Yet this petite half-Elven Healer who wore a sword at her hip and was strong enough not to falter under his considerable weight – her deep, green eyes were unafraid.

                                _Perhaps its because you're hardly even a match for an Orc right now_, he thought to himself rather grimly.  He drank his tea to avoid looking as though he were staring.  

                                "How long have you been a Healer?" He asked after a moment.  He did not know what made him want to ask her so many questions -  possibly to forestall her asking him.  He had already dodged the few personal questions she had asked.  He could feel her curiosity when she tended his wounds, and knew that sooner or later they would have to be explained.  There was no escape from the sharp eyes of this half-Elf.  Perhaps he could be on his way before it came to that.

The Healer blinked and seemed to chuckle to herself.   

                                "I've always been a Healer," she said.  "I was that before I was… Before, and during the time I learned to use this." She banged the Elven sword with her elbow.  

                                "It seems ironic that a Healer should carry a sword," he said quite evenly.  Anger flared in her eyes immediately, but to his surprise, it died away and was replaced by a look of uncertainty.  The darkness of old self-doubts made her lower her gaze for merely the briefest of seconds, but it was enough: he had seen.  _Ah ha,_ he thought.  _That's exploitable._  

"Learning to fight was secondary," she was saying now, as if the odd moment had never happened.  "I grew up with a mercenary's daughter and a berserker in Valis.  They taught me."  Her gaze seemed to turn inward, as though she were remembering something almost fondly.

                                "Ah," he said.  A mercenary's daughter and a berserker….   Also interesting.

                                "We were all orphans together," she continued, "before I finished my training and the two of them teamed up to hire themselves out as mercs."

                                "Ah," he said again.  That … could it be?  

                                Ashuram closed his eyes, the wide-shouldered body of the berserker and the flaming red hair of the mercenary woman that was his partner flitting through his memory.  He suddenly remembered the dragon's lair, where he had seen them last.  Recalled the heat, the stench of dragon-musk and sulfurous breath.  The three dark-haired men that held the dragon lances: one young and foolish, one a cunning desert-king, one a fierce berserker with strangely soft, sad eyes.  Orson.  The fiercely loud mercenary he protected: Shiriss.    

And of course, thinking of the dragon, he could not help but think of her.  Pirotess….  He opened his eyes again.

"How…  What did you say?" The Healer was asking him, and he saw her green eyes had sharpened on his face.  The contours of her face had tightened with intensity, her mouth a serious line.  Had he spoken their names aloud?

                                "I was merely remembering something," he said only, and let his eyelids drift closed again.  He hardly had to feign exhaustion.  "I am very tired."

                                The world was certainly a small place, and Lodoss smaller still; could it be they knew the same berserker, the same mercenary's daughter?  Who was this Healer, hidden away in such a small little town?  What strange kind of fate had directed their paths to cross?  Ashuram realized his weariness was making his thoughts abstract, obscure.  

                                "We will talk more later today," the Healer said, and it did not sound like a suggestion.  

                "I shall look forward to it," Ashuram replied, and almost smiled wryly as the Healer shot him a considering look.  

                                                                *              *              *

                                                

Stay tuned for more blatant name dropping in the chapters to come.  ^_~

 


	9. Two Sides of the Same Coin

Yes, Lodoss STILL isn't mine; neither are Ash, Woodchuck, Karla and any of the other characters we all know and love ('cept Ve

Disclaimer: Yes, Lodoss STILL isn't mine; neither are Ash, Woodchuck, Karla and any of the other characters we all know and love ('cept Veris, of course….).

**Chapter Nine: Two Sides of the Same Coin**

Woodchuck hated the color purple.He also hated shopping and actually paying for things, especially when it was so much easier to steal them.

What he hated most, however, was that his body was no longer under his control.He was like a passenger, stuffed back into a remote dusty corner of his own mind, forced to watch as someone else used his arms and legs, spoke with his mouth, saw with his eyes, pissed with his- 

If he could have chuckled to himself, he would have, albeit wryly.He suspected the mage inhabiting his body hadn't been accustomed to being in a male body when she chose him.He occasionally saw himself doing things that, were he more in touch with his own thoughts for longer, he might actually feel some embarrassment about.However, his consciousness was quite finite and he wasn't permitted to pull it together for very long before Karla scattered it again, as though she were shooing a pesky fly away.Moments that he was actually allowed to think lucidly about his situation were rare.

However, they were less rare lately.The Witch seemed distracted, less intent on keeping total control of him.He knew she was thinking about something else, something further away that required her powers to keep track of.While she was so occupied, he thought quietly to himself in the back of his mind so as not to attract her attention.When she realized his consciousness was alert, she'd invariably put it back to sleep.

The Witch was shopping again.She couldn't seem to resist, although he really had to wonder how many black and purple cloaks one mage could stand to have.After the thousands of years she'd been alive, he would have thought she would have tired of those particular colors.He certainly was.Cloaks were one thing, anyway, but he was entirely sick of purple underwear. 

She was thinking about something now, quite intently, and he felt her power flicker the slightest bit as she reached her consciousness out beyond his own comprehension.He listened hard to her thoughts; sometimes, just by sheer concentration in the brain they shared, he could pick out what she was thinking about.

He only could make out one thing._Alania_.Gods, not that country again.Give him city folk over farmers any day of the week.Farmers didn't know a thing about gambling, and they always banded together in droves over the slightest little provocation…That kid-turned-knight – Parn, was it?- he'd been a farmer.Hadn't he?Woodchuck couldn't always remember what had happened to him before Karla had taken over.It frustrated him, but his memories were hazy.He couldn't remember if anything had happened to him in Alania to make him feel that way about it.In fact, he had no idea how long he'd been a passenger in his own mind.Time didn't make sense anymore, not since the circlet had found his forehead.

The Witch was trying on a new cloak, looking at herself –him– her…_them_in the mirror appraisingly.She moved _his_ hips from side to side slightly, studying the effect.

Gods, it was one thing to be possessed by a mage thousands of years old, but did it have to have been a woman??Fate certainly did have a way of playing the best tricks.He was paying for all his sins a hundredfold.Whichever Goddess or God that was overseeing his role in history – if they cared, that is- was no doubt having Him or Herself a grand old snicker at poor Woodchuck's expense._Yare yare_, he thought in exasperation.At least Karla didn't make him wear dresses or dance in public.

_I heard that_, the Witch's dry voice scratched in his mind.It was so _strange_ to have another voice in his head, like an itch he couldn't reach or pinpoint.He couldn't even clutch his head melodramatically and shout for the voices in his head to shut-up.

_Since you've decided to occupy my brainpan, I don't see how you could help it,_ he thought back._Purple is so OUT this year, my dear._If he could have grinned, he would have.At least he hadn't forgotten how to be a smart-ass.

_Laugh as you will,_ she replied, her whispery, everywhere-voice answered without a trace of amusement._I'm almost done with you, anyway.Your usefulness is dwindling._At that, she sounded quite satisfied with herself.Woodchuck, however, felt a twinge of fear.Was she thinking of killing him?His consciousness beat a hasty retreat, dwindling to a dull flicker.

_That's better._The mental smile the Witch gave him was full of teeth, and he cowered. 

*******

Ashuram woke fromstrange dreams filled with purple eyes suddenly, disquieted.It took him a brief second to get his bearings, and he took a deep breath to calm the quick tempo of his heart.

He opened his eyes to find sunlight streaming brightly into the infirmary, and he guessed it was already late morning.He had slept hard, and he felt well-rested and hale.Ashuram stretched mightily, realizing that the bone-deep aches in his body were all but gone.

"I don't care how late in the day it is," the Healer's voice floated to him from nearby, and he paused to listen."He needs to sleep as much as he can and I won't wake him up."

She was talking about him, he had no doubts.He could hear other voices answer her, perhaps two or three, but he could not make out exactly what they were saying.It sounded as if whoever the Healer were talking to stood outside of the house.

"No," the Healer replied firmly."I know you've come a long way, but I'm not going to drag him out here just so you can get a good look at him."Another pause, and she interrupted, "we _are_ civilized, after all, and once he's up and about you can make your introductions like you would to anyone else."

Curious townsfolk, it sounded like.Just as the Healer had predicted.

"What?No, he said he was born in Kanon," the Healer said."He could be, but Goodman, you know it doesn't-"She was interrupted by a man's voice, low and vehement.

"We _all_ lost loved ones in the war," Healer Veris' voice said, and there was a crisp undertone to her words despite the obvious sympathy in them."Even werehe Marmoan, Goodman, that wouldn't make a difference.The war is over."

Ah ha.Apparently the village of Vesper could still smell battle fires burning. 

"Why?Because it's my job, that's why.I'm sorry, friends, but I'm going to have to get back to work."

"If you're harboring a Marmoan, we'll find out soon enough," a man's voice came, aggressively loud, and Ashuram thought it was for his benefit more than the Healer's."We won't tolerate them in Vesper."

"You surprise me, Goodman," the Healer's voice came, slightly scathing and quite reproachful."Vesper has always been a welcoming village.You ought not to condemn someone you don't know."

Ashuram could not resist a smirk.If the townspeople knew exactly who he was, they would want to do much more than simply condemn him.Burn him at the stake, more like.He wondered, briefly, if that would actually kill him.

"That's all I've got to say on the matter," the Healer said with finality."I bid you all good day.Come back when you've got a matter that I _can_ help you with!"

He heard the front door slam with some force, and the Healer muttered something to herself that he could not make out.Interesting.

Ashuram decided he'd slept all he wanted to, and threw back the covers.He swung his feet over the side and stood up.Moving his arms and taking a few steps experimentally, he realized that he was close to completely Healed.His full strength was not recovered, but that would come back soon enough.He looked around for his shirt to pull on.Not finding it, he decided not to bother.Bare-chested, tangled hair spilling past his shoulders, he wandered out of the infirmary on bare, silent feet.

The Healer stood with her back to him, halfway between the kitchen and the front door, obviously lost in thought.Her reddish hair, as usual, was pulled back tightly in a long braid that hung like a rope down her grey-robed back.

"Healer," Ashuram said quietly, mostly to announce himself.The Healer spun, startled, hand going to the sword on her hip in the gesture that laid bare her military training and contradicted her Healer's robes so completely.Her wide eyes narrowed slightly.

"Ash," she acknowledged."You startled me."

"That wasn't my intent," he assured her somberly._Jumpy, aren't we Healer?_"I heard voices."

"Ah yes," the Healer replied, and her face took on a rueful expression."The curious villagers that I mentioned."

"I have the feeling they will be glad to see the back of me," Ashuram said.It wasn't quite a joke, that wasn't his style, but his thin lips twitched upwards at the corners sardonically.

"Well-" The Healer began, spreading her hands in front of her.She paused, as if considering how best to assuage his feelings.Did she think the opinion of small town farmers bothered him? 

"Well, they take some time to warm up to strangers.That, and they think you're from Marmo."

"I am." 

The Healer's eyes grew wide.

"I…I thought you said you were from Kanon," she replied, looking disconcerted.

"I said I was born in Kanon," he corrected her impassively."When Kanon was invaded, I joined the Marmoan army.I've lived in Marmo longer than I've lived in Kanon."

"Ah," the Healer said.It was obvious she was struggling to keep her composure, but her face remained remarkably calm._Although if you knew who –what- I am…_He suppressed – just barely- the urge to chuckle ironically.Poor little Healer: what conflicts she would have with her office if he were to tell her.He debated it briefly. 

The Healer took a deep breath.

"Right," she said briskly."As far as I know, it's still no crime to be from Marmo-"

"I fought for Marmo in the war," he added somberly."I was a general in Lord Beld's army."He saw something close down in the Healer's eyes, her gaze gone chill as she regarded him.How far could he push her, he wondered?

"Why tell me?" She asked at last."It can't make a difference, I'm a Healer.Even if you were Lord Beld himself I'd have an obligation to Heal you."

"You should know," he answered simply, and he realized he wasn't telling her merely for the sake of watching her struggle with her consciousness (although that might have been amusing), or because he enjoyed being pettily cruel (which he sometimes did).It was more because it was who he was, and he would not hide it.Especially not from a Healer so bent on sticking to her noble oath. 

"And how do you know Orson and Shiriss?" She asked curiously after a moment.Ashuram smiled thinly.

"Our paths have crossed," he said._Dragon flame everywhere…_

"They're still alive?"

"As far as I know," he answered truthfully.Mercenaries were notoriously hard to kill.

They stood regarding each other for a moment, the tension palpable.

"Perhaps you ought to keep what you've told me to yourself," the Healer advised him at last."The villagers are already suspicious of you, and I don't know what would happen if they knew what you've told me.I've never seen them so willing to jump to conclusions before."

"They could not harm me," Ashuram said, with complete and unaffected confidence.The Healer raised her eyebrows, looking skeptical.

"Mighty sure of yourself, aren't you, general?" She asked him, mocking him slightly."Let me say from a professional point of view that I don't want to see my Healing go to waste or have to repeat the performance, so keep mum."It was not a suggestion this time.

Ashuram regarded the Healer curiously for a moment.He found himself wondering, with sudden insight, what kind of lieutenant she would have made.He certainly would have had a lieutenant flogged for such impertinence.

But that was neither here nor there.She was a Healer, and she had Healed him.He owed her, at least, for that.

"Very well," he replied.The Healer smiled for the first time all morning, her hard features softening.

"Good," she said."Now then.I drew some bathwater for you a few hours ago, and it should be warm by now.I'm betting you could use a bath."Goddesses, a bath.The very thought made him realize just how filthy he felt.To be clean again….

"I would like that," he said.

"You and me both," the Healer replied, green eyes sparkling mischievously."Come on, it's this way."

The bathtub was at the back of the house, an old copper cauldron-looking thing that she had built a fire under to keep warm.It was in a large, screened-in room that was slowly filling with steam.

"The blacksmith's boy left you some clothes to borrow after you're clean,"The Healer said, putting a folded pile of clothes just inside the bathroom."He's about your height so I expect they'll fit."

"I thank you," Ashuram said, and found he genuinely meant it.The Healer smiled again and left, sliding the screen shut behind her.

Ashuram slipped out of his grimy, threadbare pants and into the water, which was just warm enough to be pleasant.The water stung briefly across his ribs and chest, but he did not really mind.He sank into the water up to his neck with a long, heartfelt sigh of contentment.He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd actually been clean, and gave it up as a lost cause.

The soap that had been left for him was lavender-scented.As he scrubbed at his skin with it, he remembered the days in Lord Beld's palace.He had never bathed himself; bath girls were expected to do that for him.There were always two or three of them in his private baths.He had never bothered learning their names.They hadn't really spoken unless he had spoken to them first, although occasionally they did relieve other needs as well, when he had desired it.

He scrubbed his hair and body almost violently, dead skin and dirt scarting off in the soapy water to make a pallid cloud that floated towards the surface.When he was finished cleaning, he simply soaked, leaning comfortably back against the tub, his eyes closed.

*******

When Ashuram was clean and dressed – in clothes that for all their simplicity and roughness fit adequately – he pulled back his still-dripping hair and found the Healer working in the barn.She was humming to herself, a low sort of tuneless drone as she swept the aisle.This time, Ashuram let his feet make a noise on the barn floor to announce his presence.The Healer stopped humming abruptly, and looked up at him.

"Well, you look human again," she commented drolly, with a half-smile."Less like walking death."He let one of his eyebrows lift dubiously."At any rate, you're very welcome," she continued when he said nothing."If you want to help, there's another broom over there against the wall."

He didn't really want to help, and he certainly was no page to be sweeping the floors of a country barn, but he took the broom and began sweeping efficiently, if for no other reason than it felt good to move his body.

The last time he'd swept a barn floor had been when he was fifteen.He remembered now why he had hated being a page.He had not liked sweeping barn floors then, and he certainly cared no more for it now.At least there were no fist-sized island spiders here as there were in Marmo.They were big as mice, those things, and not even a sharp whack with a broom would kill one.

He realized suddenly he was sweeping by himself, and looked around all at once.The Healer had ducked out while he'd been lost in his thoughts.Her broom had been placed carefully against the wall.Now, what…?He knew he owed the Healer a debt, but if she expected him to simply do chores like some sort of servant, she was sadly mistaken.He was about to put his broom back against the wall, when he saw the Healer coming back from the house, carrying a tray that looked laden and heavy.Her shadow darkened the barn door a moment later, and in she came, her thick walking shoes clacking against the barn floor.

"I brought some lunch," the Healer said."I'm sure you're hungry."On cue, his stomach growled demandingly.

A few moments later, he found himself sitting on a hay bale, eating stew and bread that seemed like the best thing he'd ever tasted.The Healer obviously knew what to do with herbs besides using them to heal.He had a brief moment of repentance for his earlier assumption that she had merely left.

As he ate, she spoke to him.

"You seem to be doing much better today," she commented.He nodded.

"I feel much stronger," he agreed.

"How long have you been in Alania?" Healer Veris asked him.Her green eyes were curious.

"Since the day you found me," he replied."I don't remember exactly."

"Before that, Marmo?" She pressed.He paused in eating to regard her briefly. She seemed quite determined. He nodded deliberately.

"How long did you live in Marmo?"

"Fifteen years," he answered.He supposed he had opened the door for her to ask by volunteering information about himself earlier.No help for it now."When Marmo invaded Kanon, I joined the Marmoan army."He nearly smiled ironically._It was either that or become a slave, and I'm not much good at that._

"The invasion," the Healer said, with a not-quite-concealed trace of bitterness."Marmoan army Orcs burned my village.They killed my parents."

"A shame," Ashuram said, and it was a genuine if subdued sentiment.They had done that everywhere.His own village had been burned to the ground, although his parents had long since been past caring by that time – they had died when he was too young to remember them. 

The Healer seemed to force herself to move on to another topic.

"So, from Marmo to Alania," she said."How did you get here?And why Alania?Why not Kanon?"She paused and narrowed a hard malachite gaze at him as something occurred to her."The Marmoan army still stands in Kanon, although Marmo was defeated in the war.Do they plan to move again?How do I know you're not a spy?"

Ashuram snorted.It was a little late, he thought, to be asking such questions.Besides, he knew nothing of the movements of the Marmoan army in Kanon.Well, very little at any rate.He told the Healer so.He'd been too busy trying to send Wagnard to hell on the end of the Demon Sword._That_part he kept to himself.She shook her head stubbornly.

"You did say you were a general, after all," she said."Why wouldn't you know?I don't want my village burnt down around my ears again."The Healer leveled a stony glare at him.Really, he thought, almost amused, there was not much she could do about it if he _were_ to tell her the Marmoan army was on the move again.He doubted that they were, however.There may have been legions left, but without Lord Beld or the Black Knight to lead them, he doubted they would venture very far from their safe haven in Kanon.

Ashuram gave the Healer a measuring look.She was no threat to him.Healer Veris was competent and forthright, but after all, she was only a small-town Healer curious about the stranger passing through.She could not harm him – more, he sensed she probably wouldn't even if she could.The Healer's oath and the honor he sensed in her prevented that.Honor was something even he could understand, was something that Wagnard had often, subtly and contemptuously, derided him for having.

So he told her.Not the whole story, of course, but enough to alleviate her curiosity.It felt somehow relieving to share the tale with someone at any rate, to finally be able to look back on it and realize he was no longer struggling merely to keep breathing, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

"Your luck is incredible," she said with a disbelieving headshake when he was finished."The Goddesses favor you, man.Maybe it's the pendant you wear that brings you such luck."Ashuram felt his face go blank, but the sharp pain that came with being reminded of the pendant and all that it stood for was diminished this time to a mere dull ache.He reached up to touch it thoughtfully.

"Maybe,"he said dubiously.

*******

Sometime later,towards evening, Ashuram found himself alone in the barnyard, the broom handle in his hands.In the waning light, he found himself going through the motions of the old sword _katas_ he used to do to stay supple.

The broom handle was about the right width but much too long to simulate a sword.Never the less, he closed his eyes and moved through the ancient sword forms reflexively.He still didn't have all his strength back, but the feeling of exerting himself, of controlling his body as it went through the graceful forms of each kata, delighted him.

It was such a far cry from his condition in the last…. How long had it been?Weeks?Months?He found he couldn't really remember.At any rate, he was well enough to swing the hook with carefully managed force,battling the stiffness of his joints to move fluidly from one stance to the next.Soon enough, a thin film of sweat was cooling on his brow, and he closed his eyes against the icy evening breeze that blew against him.

"Here," the Healer's voice came to him, and he opened his eyes abruptly.He had not heard her approach.In her hands she carried two _bokken_, the wooden practice swords every swordfighter has practiced with at one time or another.She tossed one to him, which he caught easily, and stood looking at her with raised eyebrows.

The Healer smiled, unbuckling the Elven sword and leaning it carefully against the barn.

"I saw you going through the forms.I haven't had anyone to practice with in a long time, and thought you might want to spar.That is, if you're up to it."The last was spoken with raised eyebrows, the question obvious.She gave him a spare glance, one that looked halfway between challenge and professional concern for his health. 

Interesting.Sparring with the Healer.He found suddenly he very much wanted to test his newly-Healed strength against someone else.He eyed her for a moment.For all he knew she was experienced, her arms were slender and her wrists almost delicate-looking.He doubted she was very strong.He wondered if she would be worth fighting simply for fighting's sake.There were so few that were.

"Of course," he said, and bowed to her formally.She bowed in reply, taking her bokken in an easy grip and standing in a low stance.

There was a pause in which the evening hushed around them.They each stood still, waiting for the other to move.The breeze picked at their hair and clothing as if urging them into action.

Then, between one eye blink and the next, the Healer attacked.She gave no warning before whirling quickly and dropping to strike at his legs.He blocked effortlessly.She sidestepped his return parry.She was skilled enough to see that it would be a waste of energy to pit her strength against his when she did not have to, and did not block when she could just as easily evade.The Healer feinted right and brought her bokken up, swiftly jabbing at him.She aimed to thrust into the soft part between his shoulder joint and collarbone, but he knocked the attack away smoothly, and actually had to work to make it look effortless.

After a moment, Ashuram found himself grinning in real enjoyment.The Healer was a worthy opponent.As he had suspected, she was not a match for his own strength, but she was very, very fast.He soon realized it was a struggle to predict what she would do next and found himself anticipating her next movement with curiosity.The mercenaries had taught her well.No movement was wasted, every reaction was fluid, the bokken in her hand moving as naturally as if it were part of her.If he was not quite impressed, it was because he had not yet met anyone faster or stronger than himself – the Healer included.He was certainly satisfied with her ability.Not even Pirotess… He choked the thought off quickly.Thinking of things like that would only distract him.

His stamina was not yet recovered, however, and soon he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing heavy.The twilight was filled with the clatter of block and parry, of small sounds of exertion and the scuffle of feet against the soft earth.He could hear the Healer breathing heavily as well, although she showed no other signs of effort.Her face was a cool mask, the green eyes hard and determined, the mouth a set, emotionless line.

Ashuram decided to end the sparring match before his strength started to wane.Quickly he stepped _into_ the Healer's attack, startling her, and knocked her bokken out of the way with a calculated burst of strength.He hooked his heel behind her ankle and almost gently tripped her.

She sprawled backwards, catching herself in the first awkward movement he had seen her execute, coming to lie on the ground with his bokken resting at the hollow of her throat.She looked highly bemused, looking up at him with some disbelief, her mouth open and breathing hard.

"That hasn't happened to me in a long time," she said ruefully at last, as he took the bokken away and bowed again."By the Goddess.I never even saw that coming."Even good fighters knew when they were outmatched.She accepted the hand he held out to her and let him pull her to her feet.

"I suspect you could have done that whenever you wanted and I could not have stopped you," she continued, giving him one of her trademark brief, wry grins.Well, yes, he supposed she was right.

"You were quite a worthy opponent," he said, not contradicting her."I enjoyed that.Perhaps again tomorrow."The Healer nodded, brushing herself off and buckling herself back into her sword

"I am rusty," she said, "and I see I could learn from you.It would be an honor."Ashuram blinked at her, unprepared for this response.She wanted to learn….from him?From a self-confessed general of the Marmoan army?

"Healer, why are you so interested in the way of the sword?" he asked her curiously."I find it odd that a woman whose job it is to heal is also drawn to the sword so significantly."Somewhat to his surprise, she blushed uncomfortably, her pale skin unable to hide the sudden bloom of color.Ah, there was that look of uncertainty again.Was she ashamed of her love of the sword?

"I suppose it's two sides of the same coin, isn't it?"She said after a moment."Life, and death, and the ability to hasten both.I love to Heal people, but I also love… I love the thrill of fighting."

Ashuram looked at the woman in a new light, startled by this insight.How odd to have such a contradiction housed in a woman who seemed to live such a quiet life.

"How curious," he murmured.She nodded.

"Yes, it must seem quite bizarre.But don't get me wrong," the Healer added grimly, "I do not enjoy killing.I have never sought to bring it.But the fight, the narrowing of consciousness down to one point in time, the simplicity of swords – thatthrill I can't seem to escape."

"Perhaps we are not so different, you and I," Ashuram said coolly, narrowing his eyes in appraisal of the woman in front of him._If she only knew…_Something kept him from telling her, some sort of respect and recognition of gratitude made him realize telling her the entire truth would only make her job difficult.

"Perhaps," she replied without conviction, her green eyes luminous in the dimness.She did not quite look pleased by the comparison.

***


	10. Unfinished....

Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply

Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply!  Lodoss is not mine *sniffle* and I'm making no money from this work.  Although, if anyone wanted to pay me I certainly wouldn't mind….oops! er, I mean…on with the story!

                                                                ****Chapter Ten: Unfinished. . .

** **

                                                He was dreaming, with exquisite vividness, of Soul Crusher.

                                                The sword swam in his vision; it was the only thing he could see.  It kept slipping out of his grasp, teasing him by sliding out of his fingers just as they closed on the hilt.  The more he tried to clutch at it, the more it seemed to melt away from him.

                                                He could not remember wanting a thing so much as he did that sword.  The desire to own it, to possess it, burned in him.  He had never felt such a strong compulsion for the sword before, certainly not in the waking world.

                                                Yet it kept falling away from him.

                                                _You want this,_ a voice he could not quite pinpoint whispered in his ears, even as his fingers fell short of the hilt.  _This is yours, by rights._  Whose voice?  Whose voice was that?

                                                _Take this._  The sword gleamed in his vision, and he dreamt the day he had held the sword for the first time, the painful dark lightning of its power coursing through his body.  _Find this._  It is part of you.  You are part of it. The incredible power.  The Demon sword.  

_ You will have no rest until it is yours again._

Was that a threat?  He did not like this dream, not one bit. 

A dry chuckle filled his ears, scratchy and otherworldly._  Get used to it, Black Knight.  You__'ve regained your strength - the geas is awakened._

And then the sword was gone, replaced by darkness.  The sense of loss he felt was nearly overwhelming and almost rivaled the bitter bereavement he had felt when Pirotess had died in his arms.  He was floating in nothingness, his hands grasping at emptiness.  His eyes ached to see the sword again. 

Something brushed against him in the darkness and he grabbed at it, hoping to find some answer, some relief….

*              *              *              *              *              *              *

Ashuram woke to find the Healer's green eyes scant inches from his own.  They were wide and startled.  Her mouth was open and perhaps she had already let out a cry or had been too surprised to utter one, for no sound issued forth.  Tendrils of dusky gold hair fell about her face, framing  her bemused expression.

He held her tightly against him, her shoulder digging painfully against the still tender lacerations striping his chest.  He had twisted one of her arms up behind her tightly, the other one pinned between them.

What the…?  Ashuram blinked, and let go of her all at once.  The Healer stumbled back away from him, wincing as she rubbed her shoulder and arm where it had been bent.

"Goddess," she said in a low voice."What the hell are you?"

"Don't touch me when I'm sleeping," he growled, unsure what had happened.  He was in general a light sleeper but one did not stay the Black Knight for long by merely sleeping light.  Too many assassination attempts had trained him to come awake fighting if he were touched while asleep.

"I didn't," she said, angry color rising in her cheeks despite her carefully controlled, even tone."My robe brushed against you while I was checking on you.  You were making sounds in your sleep and I came to see that you were alright."

                                                Suddenly he remembered the dream.  Loss crashed through him once more, with an almost ferocious desire to find the Demon sword.  He grimaced, fighting the feeling.  Where was this coming from?  He had never felt such a desire before.

                                                _The geas has awakened___….  That voice…

"Ash?  Are you listening?" The Healer was asking him.  He shook his head to clear it, and the feeling subsided to a dull, bearable twinge.

"What did you say?"  He asked.

"I said: if you're going to keep coming awake ready to kill me, it's going to get in the way of my job."

"Don't touch me while I'm sleeping," he said again, this time with slightly more civility in his tone."I don't come awake very well."

"No kidding," she muttered, and now he could see the anger in her green eyes."I thought I had bad dreams, but I don't think they're anything to yours."

                                                Indeed.  He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"For your sake I hope not," he said."I'm alright now, Healer.  I'm sorry for troubling you."

"Well," she said, obviously softening."I suppose you can hardly help your dreams.  I made breakfast – come eat when you're up." 

                                                He resisted the urge to tell her to bring his breakfast to him, just barely.  It came naturally to him to give orders, of course, but he had the feeling it would only make the Healer angrier.  He was, as she had pointed out, not a general here.

                                                Instead, he nodded, letting himself be somewhat distracted with thinking of the dream he'd had.  The Healer left him to his thoughts, and he hardly noticed her leave.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *

                                                Veris was pouring tea when she heard the door to the infirmary swing open softly.  She looked up to see Ash padding towards her, his tall lanky frame moving forward with purposeful grace.

                                                His health had almost completely returned, and the pallidity of his skin was infused with life, making him look less like a freshly-raised cadaver.  Her eyes were drawn to him: he carried himself with unconscious elegance that was hard to avoid looking at.  Despite the fact he wore Garn's borrowed utilitarian clothing, he still looked decidedly out of place.  _More like he ought to be striding through a throne room, not my front hallway_, Veris thought to herself with some amusement.

                                                _Very like a general_.  Her amusement died suddenly.  She rubbed her arm where he'd grabbed it that morning, wincing slightly.  He had come awake so violently, hands reaching out to pin her before his eyes had even opened.  What manner of man was it that was ready to kill before he was even awake?

 As much as she wanted to put the war behind her, she found it was hard to keep from thinking about it when he was nearby.  He moved and spoke with such military precision she could not help but be reminded of it.

                                                She had seen such terrible things in that war against Marmo.  She wanted to forget, but she couldn't.  Ash alone wasn't her enemy, nor had he ever been.  Wars were never about just one person – she knew that.

                                                Despite this, and despite her Healer's oath, she found forgiveness difficult.  It was one thing to treat a person's ills on a patient-Healer basis, but this man was staying in her house, eating her food, causing resentment among the villagers.  She noticed he hadn't fallen all over himself to say much in the way of a "thank you" for it, either.

                                                _He should be on his way soon_, she thought to herself suddenly.  _If he stays much longer, the villagers may come to violence._  And I certainly wouldn__'t want to choose sides in that kind of confrontation.

                                                Ash sat down at the table, and she felt the weight of his gaze on her.  His dark eyes were as ever, intensely cold and voraciously focused.  He gave her something of a measuring look, and Veris felt indignant color rise in her cheeks.  He often looked as though he were deliberating when he looked at her, judging.

                                                As if he'd been reading her mind, he suddenly said:

"Healer, I think I should be on my way soon.  Tomorrow, most likely."  Veris nodded.

"Very well," she said.  Curiosity prompted her to ask: "Where will you go?"  He gave a fluid shrug, and his gaze looked directed inwards, as though something were distracting him.

"I have certain things I must take care of," he said distantly, and for some reason Veris shuddered.  That certainly sounded ominous.

                                                She set a plate of breakfast in front of him, and he nodded absently, picking up his fork and eating mechanically without even looking down to see what he ate.

"Well, then you should be on your way," Veris agreed.  _Undoubtedly, the sooner this sinister character leaves, the better._  Vesper will forget about him quickly.

                                                He didn't answer, and Veris looked up to see him staring at nothing, obviously lost deep in thought.  His fork had paused halfway between the plate and his mouth, hovering empty.  His eyes were preternaturally bright and cold, glittering like polished onyx.  They looked feverish.

"Ash?" She asked."Are you feeling alright?"  He didn't seem to have heard her, and she moved forward to wave her hand in front of his face once."Hello?" __

__He blinked hard, shaking himself out of his thoughts.  She reached a hand out to touch his forehead to make sure he was not fevered, and he avoided her touch as if it were instinctual for him to do so.

"No, hold still," she said quietly, but firmly, and placed the back of her fingers against his forehead.  His skin was only slightly warmer than her own, certainly not fevered.

"Healer, I'm alright," he said roughly, long fingers removing her hand with no particular brusqueness nor gentleness.   Then, obviously feeling he owed her some sort of explanation, he added: "I had…an odd dream this morning, and it distracts me." 

                                                Veris found herself moved to smile quickly.

"I wondered if my cooking was that bad," she said, gesturing to his plate.  Ash looked down, as if suddenly realizing he wasn't eating, his fork merely hovering.

"On the contrary," he said with some sincerity, beginning to eat with enthusiasm, "it's delicious."  Well, that was slightly gratifying, and Veris couldn't help but feel partially mollified.

"I have to replenish my stock of herbs today," she was prompted to say, "and if you're up for some exercise, you're welcome to come along."

"I will," he said gravely.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

Ashuram walked slowly through the chill shade of the old forest, slanting afternoon sunlight falling through the leaves and dappling his dark hair as he moved carelessly between light and shadow.  

An absorbed frown drew his cormorant-wing brows downwards and his mouth was set in a pensive line.  He was lost in his thoughts, his gaze cast downwards towards his booted feet, hardly realizing he had outpaced the Healer by quite a distance.

He was in a mood for reflection.  _Brooding, Lord Beld would have called it,_ he thought to himself wryly.  Lord Beld had hardly ever been a man for careful contemplation – he held a philosophy that preferred action.  It had landed him on the throbbing end of a lightning bolted spear.  So much for Lord Beld's philosophy.  

                                                The wry smile left his features to be replaced by the frown.  

 Ashuram was thinking about the demon sword. 

 Soul Crusher.   He felt its absence keenly.

_It__'s just a thrice-blasted sword_, he told himself fiercely.  He hated the idea of being bound to anything.  Dependence of any kind was just another type of weakness, and he could not stand the thought of that flaw in himself.  Yet where was this yearning coming from?  He wanted to feel the sword in his hand again, to lift it and hear the demon song vibrate through the blade into his bones, to feel himself the conduit and focal point of the sword's power.  He wanted to feel every hair crackle and lift with dark energy, the fine-edged thrill of battle humming against his nerves.

It was, he thought with disgust, something like the craving that comes with addiction. 

                                                He thought of the voice in his dream: that whispery, scratchy voice, which had somehow been familiar.  But who?  Who had a voice…like _that_?

                                                He had to admit, however, even to himself, that despite the craving, finding the demon sword seemed only logical.  The Valisian knight had no claim on the sword.  It belonged in the hands of one who could use it properly, and he knew of no one else whose skill matched his own.  Ashuram was not flattering himself; it was simply the truth.

                                                Beyond that, it would give him some purpose to his days.  Since the mere struggle to survive was unnecessary, he'd been floating, purposeless. The coldness that he had held on to all his life was still there, but it was much thinner now.  It came and went.  He thought it might have started crumbling when Pirotess had died, but he could not be sure.  The events between her death and his own brush with death had been a whirlwind of anger and action, one that had held little time for self reflection.  Truthfully, he had given himself no time to think, for fear he would find that Pirotess' death had left a hole he would never fill.

                                                But now, there was no rage sustaining him.  He no longer had illness to blame for his readiness to accept fate.  Although he was recovering, if he truly felt a sense of vengeance against Parn, would he not have left already and killed the whelp, taking back the sword that had saved him?  He felt no desire to kill the other knight.  He merely wanted the sword.

                                Other than that desire, he felt little.  No cold, calculating rationale, no battle-fire driving him.  No decisions to make.  No great sense of loss.  He was floating, gently and easily, which was something he'd never done.  _Give it time_, he told himself.  _You are still mending._  

                                                _Fool_, was his next thought.  When had he ever been so lenient on himself?  He was Ashuram, the Black Knight!  He could do things most people could only have nightmares of.  There had been no time in his life when he hadn't had a plan, a goal to drive towards,  an ends to justify his means.

                                                Now, he felt empty.  It was a weakness –like all the others– he was unused to facing, and he loathed it.  _Oh, for the simplicity of the battlefield_, he thought wistfully, just once – before his face hardened in anger.  _Are you ***listening*** to yourself, man?_  You sound like a battle-addicted old veteran who can__'__t put up his sword for the smell of blood still clinging to it.           

                                                There was no war to fight, but somewhere there was a Demon Sword, waiting for him.  If he wanted action, he would have to find the Knight of Valis and take the sword back.  If he wanted power, he merely had to possess the sword once more and the Demon power would be his.  After that, he did not know – perhaps he could rebuild Marmo and start again.  It would be almost possible to do so with Soul Crusher.  Without it, a mere indulgence of whimsy.

A very thin core of resolve began to harden in him.  He would take the sword back.  The longing for it throbbed in his very veins, and he gritted his teeth against it impatiently.  It was the only thing he _could_ do.  What came after that would be another matter for him to contemplate another time.                

"Ah, Ash, there you are," the Healer's voice came from behind him, and Ashuram felt the mask come down as he turned to face her, the signs of his inner struggle carefully hidden.  She had a half-full basket hanging from her arm and balanced on the hip that had no sword hanging by it.  

Her reddish hair was lit up by a stray glimmer of waning sunlight, the grey robes of her station making her look as though she had risen up from the forest floor.  Her thin face held a slight smile,  and her clear wide eyes were an inhumanly vibrant jade.  She looked very fey standing there, more elemental than real, as if he stirred quickly or made a loud noise, she would melt back into the forest.  

                                                Here was someone who would understand what it was like to miss the battlefield, he thought to himself.  If anyone could empathize with the emptiness that still remained despite his new-found resolve, it would be her.  He wondered what she would do if she knew who it was she had so much in common with.

"Healer," he acknowledged, nodding slightly.  

    "We've been walking all day, she said, her look sobering to be replaced by one of professional concern, "how do you feel?"

                                                "Myself again.  Almost," he amended, thinking of the past day spent in contemplation.  She nodded.

                                                "Good.  If you tire yourself out too much, you will undo my Healing; although since you made it to Vesper in the first place, I imagine you can survive almost anything."  She gave him a suppressed grin.

                                                _Survive anything_…Her words made him think of Pirotess' words to him when they had talked in his hallucinatory dream state.  She had spoken of the Demon Sword, and how it would drag him back from death while he was the Bearer.  Did that mean…he was immortal, as long as he kept the sword?  Now he wondered.        

                                                "I am, as they say, only human," Ashuram replied.  It wasn't quite the truth, of course.

                                                "We can't all be perfect," Healer Veris sighed modestly, rubbing one gently pointed ear.  

                                                Ashuram looked at the Healer thoughtfully.  She was nothing special, really, he reflected.  True, she had a startling, inexplicable beauty that appealed to him, but while that was pleasant to look upon, it was ultimately not important.  She was a capable fighter, but that, too, was a small accomplishment.  She had no great strength, no position of power (save in the tiny village of Vesper), no aspirations that he could ascertain of becoming something bigger than she was.  

                                                And yet, somehow, he respected her.  She Healed him and continued to treat his minor wounds despite the fact that he had told her he was her mortal enemy.  He once might have found this loyalty to her Healer's oath pathetic, but he, too, understood loyalty of a sort.  Furthermore, she was never afraid of him, never deferred to him or treated him with any higher respect than she treated the dirtiest, mud-smeared farmer that came to see her.

                                                If he had been on Marmo in Lord Beld's castle and she had been his to command, he might have had her killed for her impertinence.  He had done such things before.  Or, he might have promoted her for her refreshing directness.  Yet, this was Alania and he could do neither.  He could only wonder at the strange fate that had led her to find him.      

                                                The Healer opened her mouth to say something else,  and a twig snapped some distance away, stopping her words before they were formed.   The sound was amazingly loud in the relative stillness of the forest.  They both froze, instinctively crouching, listening hard.  There was silence for a moment, and then, the sound of motion.  

                                                Something heavy walking, Ashuram realized.  Not bothering to be stealthy.  Something big.

                                                Then he smelled it.  Orc stench. 

                                                                                *              *              *

                

Author's note: _geas_, by the way, is word of good old Gaelic origin (I believe), and simply means compulsion to do something, usually against one's will.  It's sort of like a curse.  I'm not trying to insult anybody's intelligence by defining it here or anything – but it certainly wasn't in my computer's dictionary!  Hmph.


	11. Battle

Disclaimer: The Surgeon General says that violence is bad for one's health and ought not to be attempted at home

Disclaimer: The Surgeon General says that violence is bad for one's health and ought not to be attempted at home.  The Author says Lodoss isn't mine and I'm making no money off of it.  If you don't like violence, don't read this chapter.  Thanks!  Enjoy!                                       

                                                                ****Chapter Eleven: Battle

                                Orcs.  Now that was a familiar, nostalgic smell.

His nose wrinkled despite the many years he'd had to get used to the stench.  Orc recruits had filled the ranks of Marmo's army long before humans had been conscripted.  He glanced over at the Healer.  She had perceived it, too.  Her face was very pale, a look of bitter disgust and hatred on her face.  

                He heard muffled grunting coming closer, snuffling as if it had found their scent, as well.  Orcs had a sense of smell as keen as a dog's, but they were certainly wilier than a dog.

                                He heard the familiar catch and hiss of a sword being grasped and drawn, and he saw the thin, rune-covered blade shining in the waning sunlight.  His fingers ached to hold the weight of Soul Crusher again.                 

Suddenly, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

                                "Healer, to the right," he barked, rolling out of the way as an Orc came charging towards them, thick battle-axe raised over its head.  He needn't have bothered with the warning, he saw, coming to his knees.  She was already facing the Orc, sword at the ready.  She looked positively little before the Orc bearing down on her, and he thought that this might be an interesting fight.  

                The Orc brought the axe down where the half-Elf should have been, displacing air with a mighty hiss, the blade sticking in the earth with the force of its blow.  If the half-Elf had caught any of that blade, she would have been cleaved in two.

                "Bloody stinking porcine bastard," He heard the Healer mutter, her tone emotionless as she rolled back to her feet.   The Orc roared, swinging the axe again.  The Healer, much faster, darted forward, jabbing at the Orc.  It was not  wearing armor, but Orc hide was notoriously tough.  Even an Elven blade would have to get a clean shot in to pierce the stuff.

                Apparently, she did enough damage for the Orc to feel it, for it howled, little round yellow eyes squinting up in pain and rage.  It charged her again, but she danced out of the way, jabbing at it, cutting it down little pieces at a time.

                Ashuram realized there was movement coming up behind his left shoulder.  Instinct saved him: he ducked and sidestepped, air whistling by him as a thick-bladed cutlass slashed downwards with crushing strength. He turned to see another Orc poised to strike again, its tusk-filled mouth grinning idiotically, yellow eyes agleam with piggish delight.  He had no sword; it figured him for easy prey.  It would soon discover its mistake.

                The Orc raised its sword over its head in preparation to strike.  Classic, that: these were not Marmoan Orcs or they would have had more battle finesse and more than one attack stance.  As it brought the sword back to gain the best leverage, Ashuram dodged in, aiming his booted foot for the Orc's crotch.  Even Orcs suffered if hit in that particular location.  He missed, slightly, his toe digging in instead into the Orc's belly.  It grunted,  but the pain was minimal and did not stop it.  Ashuram whirled out of the way as the Orc brought the sword down.

                He remembered his days in training as a knight when he had fought Orcs regularly in the sparring ring, bokken against bokken.  At night he had fought more of them bare fisted in the fighting pit, where drunk lords would come and throw down money on the favored fighter.  It had been an almost nightly entertainment for many of the Marmoan and Kanonite lords looking to spend some of their newly acquired wealth.  It came back to him slowly, how to box with a thing twice his weight and with skin like fleshed-over chain mail.  

                He could hear the sound of the battle raging behind him, the Healer's sharp exhalations as she fought, but he could not turn around.  He ducked under the falling cutlass again easily, snatching the Orc's wrist and halting it briefly before it could shake him loose.  Ashuram found the pressure points of the Orc's hand with determined haste, putting all the strength he could muster in pressing them.  With an angry yowl, the Orc whipped its hand away, the fingers going lax and the cutlass clattering to the ground.  Ashuram dove for it, grunting as he hefted its weight.

Surprising, how easily an Orc's head could be separated from its body with something so heavy.  The Orc fell with a crash like muffled thunder, head rolling someplace behind it.  Breathing raggedly, Ashuram turned to see how the Healer was faring.  

                                He was just in time to duck out of the way of a toppling Orc body, which made an echo to the crash that had come just before.  The Healer flicked blood from her sword with a graceful, whiplash sweep of her arm.  He appreciated the grace of the gesture as much as he did the gesture itself; it harkened back to an older school of fighting that one did not see much of these days.  It showed respect for the blade, which he could do nothing but empathize with.

                Suddenly he found the tip of the Elven sword resting in the deep hollow of his throat - the blade, warm from battle, against his skin.  He blinked, startled, to meet the Healer's glittering, hard eyes.  Her face was emotionless and quite pale.

                                "Orcs," she said in a bitten, low tone.  "From Kanon, surely.  And you tell me you know nothing of army movements?"  Ashuram snorted scornfully; he couldn't help himself.

                                "Do you see any armor on these creatures?" he asked her, gesturing.  "These aren't army Orcs, they're half-wild and have no battle sense.  Raiders, most likely."  Her green eyes narrowed slightly.  

                                "Whatever Goddess you pray to help you if you're lying," she said evenly, and he could only feel a mild feeling of astonishment as he realized _she would kill me right here if she thought she ought: I can see it in her eyes._  Interesting.  

He shook his head, feeling the point of the blade bite gently against his skin.

                                "What reason would I have to lie?" He asked, truthful at least in this.  It must have rung convincingly in her ears, for suddenly she sheathed the sword with a fast, sharp movement. 

                "Very well," she said coolly.  Suddenly she looked through the trees towards the western horizon.  Ashuram looked with her, wondering what had caught her eyes.  

                                Against the setting of the sun, dark smoke was rising up in the distance, wafting into the dimness of falling  dusk in thin, long wisps.

                                "Oh, Goddess," the Healer said, her low voice anguished.  "Vesper!"   

                She dropped her basket and began to run, and Ashuram could only follow her.

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                The smoke was thick by the time they reached the Healer's house.

                "Vesper," he heard the Healer say thinly, sounding as though she had already begun to mourn.  He spared her a curious glance, bemused by her desire to care for the small town.  Had it been a Marmoan or even a Kanonite village, he would not have felt the same loyalty.

                She ran to get her horse, fumbling the bridle over the mare's unwilling head with desperate speed.  She jumped up on the mare's back without bothering with a saddle, and made as though she would ride off.  

                "Wait," Ashuram said, taking hold of the horse's reigns.  The mare promptly tried to bite him, and he swatted her across the nose warningly.  "I would come, too."  The Healer looked at him for a moment, her features becoming lost in the dimness of falling night.  

                                "Very well," she said at last.  "Climb up."  He did as she bid him, awkwardly holding on to her around the sack tied to her back.  He had not ridden bareback since he was a page, but the loss of a saddle did not bother him.  The mare snorted under the extra weight, dancing and tossing her head in protest.

                "Stop that," Veris told the horse, and touched her heels to the mare's flanks.  The horse started off at a heavy canter, struggling to run.  Ashuram took hold of the Healer's sword belt to keep the motion of the horse from jarring them together.  He could smell the sweat of fear coming off of her, and knew that no matter how calm she looked, she was frantic to save her village.  

                                The mare ran down the hard-packed dirt road, her hooves sounding forcefully against the earth.  They could see flames not long afterwards, the small heart of the village ablaze.  Dark shapes darted between the flames, broad-shouldered and ponderous.  

Orcs.  A horde of them.  

                As they approached, the mare neighed shrilly, rearing at the Orc scent and the blazing buildings.  The Healer slipped off the mare's back, sword coming to her hand, and Ashuram followed her.  

For a moment the half-Elf seemed mesmerized by the glare, firelight reflecting flatly in her wide eyes.  Then she seemed to shake herself, her face becoming set, and she strode towards the burning houses purposefully.  

                                A dark shape carrying a sword came running towards them, backlit by fire.  Ashuram tensed before he realized it was much too small to be an Orc.  

                                "Healer Veris," a low voice said, and the wide, well-muscled man that had approached took one of her hands in his own briefly.  "Ill met but well come never the less."  The sword he carried was dark with blood and dark blood and soot stained the man from head to foot.

                                "Goodman Dorval," the Healer replied, sounding equally grim, "when?"  She gestured to the blaze.

                                "Dusk," he replied.  "Raiders.  But this we can discuss later.  We need your sword now."

                                "I would we had got here sooner," the Healer said, shaking her head.  "I'll do what I can."

                                "Give me a sword," Ashuram ordered suddenly, and the heavily built man spared him a somber, measuring look.  "I can fight."   The man and the Healer's eyes met in a thoughtful gaze.  After a moment the Healer nodded gravely.

                                "Do as he bids, Goodman," she said at last.  "He is as true as his word."  The Goodman nodded.  There was another full scabbard at his belt, and he pulled the sword free and presented it hilt first to Ashuram.

                "It will likely not be up to your standards," the man warned him.  Ashuram half-bowed.

                                "I thank you," he said.  He hefted the sword curiously.  The blade was thick and long, curving gently like an elongated, slender cutlass.  It was heavy, weight balanced forward along the blade rather than in the hilt.  The hilt itself looked as though it were merely an extension of the sword, for it was all one piece of steel rather than a hilt attached to the tang; the hand grip was a piece of simple black leather wrapped snugly around the steel.  It was a rough weapon, certainly no Soul Crusher, but it was good to feel a sword in his hands again.

                                "It suits," Ashuram told the man, whom he gathered to be the village blacksmith.  "Let us go."

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                The night was long, hot, and full of blood.

                It must have been a hard winter, for there were many Orcs and they were hungry.  Coming up from Kanon, ravaged as it was by war and the struggle to maintain a standing army, the Orcs were desperate for the largess they had found in the village of Vesper.

                They had certainly done a good job on the town, Ashuram thought dispassionately as he fought his way around the bodies of villagers and the carcasses of the Orcs.  Goods and furniture had been strewn everywhere, discarded carelessly when found they contained no food.  Burning bits of roofs and collapsing fire-eaten houses spilled into the street.  

                These Orcs, at least, knew how to fight.  Unlike the two in the woods, the horde that had descended on the town showed evidence of training and battle cunning.  They might have been Marmoan army recruits at one time, Ashuram found himself thinking, but they certainly were no longer.

                                He fought, and his body seemed almost to hum with delight as he moved in the ages-old dance of battle.  _Now_, he thought.  _Now I am the Black Knight again._  A cold grin pulled at his lips.  

                When there was a lull in the activity around him, he paused, getting his breath back.  Nearby he could hear the sounds of battle still raging, and went to seek  it out.

                                He rounded the corner of a still burning house to find the Healer fighting two Orcs.  As he stopped to watch, he saw the Healer block a furious blow from one of the Orc's swords, the force behind it sending her to her knees.  She was slow getting up and he saw she was exhausted.

                                _She is too slow, she is going to die right here,_ he found himself thinking distantly, and suddenly remembered she had all but saved his life.  Sword in hand, he ran towards the two Orcs, just as one of them was bringing its sword to bear.

                                Ashuram blocked the blow that would have cleaved the Healer's head from her body.  Standing over her, he dodged the Orc's sword and thrust his own deep into the Orc's unprotected belly.  Pulling it out, in the same motion he reversed the sword and sunk it deeply into the remaining Orc.  The two toppled slowly, slightly out of synch, falling with heavy finality to the ground.  

                                He turned, his dark hair glinting with the firelight behind him, and offered his hand to the Healer to help her up.

                                "Now we are even," he said to her somberly, the hot wind from the roaring blaze lifting his hair off of his shoulders slightly.

                                "Goddess," she said again in a low voice, as if she simply could not fathom what had happened, "what are you?" 

                                                

 

                *              *              *


	12. Visitor From the Past

Disclaimer: I don't any of Lodoss or the established characters thereof

Disclaimer: I don't any of Lodoss or the established characters thereof.  I just own Healer Veris and what's left of Vesper.  Enjoy! ^-^

                                                                **Chapter Twelve: Visitor From the Past**

                                The day dawned grey and shabby, as if it had been stained with the black smoke that even now still drifted up from the smoldering fires burning in the heart of the little town.

                                Ashuram's sword was covered with gore, and exhaustion weighed his limbs as he picked his way through what remained of Vesper.  He looked around him with a slight, detached sense of amazement.  The town was in ruins.  Many of villagers were dead.  Most of the raiders had also died, a countless number by his own hand.  

                                The smell of violence, of fire and blood, was heavy in the air.  He felt drained by it, and wanted to be in the fresh air again.  The battle was over, and he needed rest.

                                He spied the Healer bent over the body of one of the villagers not far down the road, obviously tending to the man's wounds.  The villager held the Healer's hand tightly, and he could see the faint blue glow that he associated  with Healing magic.  He approached her slowly, the sword in his hand almost dragging the ground, it felt so heavy.

                                She looked up at his approach and he could only stare at her, shocked.  Gone was the calm, detached mask that had been firmly in place during the battle.  Her thin face was streaked with soot and dirt, her eyes childlike in their width.  The look in them was anything but childlike, however.  Her eyes were nearly grey with fatigue,  half moons of exhaustion making faintly purple shadows under them.  Tears made clean, crooked stripes down her cheeks; she seemed not to notice them, for she made no attempt to wipe them away.  Her skin was grey under the grime.  She looked weary, and so very, very disconsolate.  

                                He recognized the color of her skin meant she was nearing magic exhaustion as well.  If she used her Healing magic much more, she would soon make herself collapse.  Nevertheless, the blue glow came steadily from her hands as she held them over the villager's body.  The man coughed, and Ashuram could see the wound she was trying to heal would have killed him already had it not been for the Healer keeping him alive.  

                                "Healer," he said, surprised at the gentleness in his voice.  "Healer, you're going to collapse very soon.  You're close to magic exhaustion."  He'd seen Wagnard with it maybe twice before, and both times the mage had almost gone into a catatonic stupor.

                                The Healer shook her head stubbornly.

                                "There are too many," she said, her voice rough and flat with fatigue.  "I can't stop now or they'll die."  More tears streaked down her face, as if they were nothing.

                                Pirotess would not have cried at the end of a battle, he found himself thinking.  Especially not one they had won.  He looked around thoughtfully.  Perhaps the village of Vesper hadn't exactly won, at that – there were so many casualties.  _He'd_ won; he was still breathing, and he felt no sorrow.  

                                Yet there was the Healer, grey as her robes, as capable a fighter as Pirotess had been, and she mourned for the dead.  How long, he wondered, had it been since he felt remorse like this?  Pirotess had not been human, which perhaps accounted for her disassociation; Elves did not feel things the way humans did, and they certainly did not waste tears over loss of  human life.  

                                Weakness.  Or was it?  She certainly did not seem ashamed by it. 

                                He had not cried when Pirotess had died, although he had wanted to.  It seemed as though he had forgotten how, that his sorrow for her loss was beyond tears.  

                                He heard the man coughing suddenly, and Ashuram looked over to see that the villager had been Healed.  His wound was still bloody but it no longer bled profusely.  His internal organs had been made whole again; he would live.

                                The Healer stood up unsteadily, her normal half-Elven grace gone as she spread her hands to help herself balance.  She took a few faltering steps and suddenly began to sink slowly towards the ground, her legs collapsed from beneath her.

                                He caught her before she fell, taking hold of her arms just below the shoulders and shaking her gently.

                                "Healer," he said.  "Healer Veris."  Her eyes were unfocused, her limbs sagging.  Suddenly she took a breath and took her own weight, regaining control of her consciousness.  

                                "I'm alright," she said, stepping away from him quickly.  "I don't need help."  

                                Did that refrain sound familiar?  A smile of irony made a brief appearance at the corners of his lips before quickly disappearing.  He did not try to support her again.     

                                She stumbled over to another villager lying on the ground and knelt by the prone body.  He could see the blow glow faintly rise in her hands, and the woman she was healing twitched and groaned softly.

                                "Shh," he heard the Healer say comfortingly.  "You're going to be fine, Goodwoman."  He watched the woman's body slowly, slowly repair itself under the Healer's hands, and then the blue glow stopped.

                                The Healer collapsed where she was sitting, lying in the dust next to the woman she had just Healed, completely unconscious.  

                                Ashuram sighed.  He walked over to her and looked down, wondering what to do with her.

                                "She's certainly tough, for such a small Healer," a somber voice said beside him, and Ashuram looked over to see the blacksmith standing there, his dark face haggard and grimy.  Ashuram shrugged fluidly in reply.  Of course she was tough; otherwise, she'd be dead.  It went without saying.  

                                "At any rate, we owe you our gratitude," the man said after a moment when it was obvious that was all the answer he was going to get.  "Not much of Vesper is left, I'm afraid, but there'd be much less left if it weren't for you."  Ashuram bowed his head quickly.  

                                "I did what I could," he said merely, which was the truth.  He offered the hilt of his borrowed sword back to the man.  "It's a bit worse for wear, I'm afraid," he said, "but I thank you for the use of it.  It's a well-made sword."  

                                "Keep it," the man said, unbuckling the empty sheath and handing it over.  "You've certainly earned it, and I can always make another."  The man glanced over at the ruins of his house, where Ashuram supposed the forge had once stood. 

 "Well, someday, anyway," the man amended.

                                "I thank you," Ashuram said again, and accepted the sword.  He buckled it around his waist.  Despite his exhaustion, the weight of the sword felt natural at his hip.  It would do until he found Soul Crusher, he supposed.  

                                "Poor Healer," the blacksmith said, looking down at the half-Elf.  "There's too many too badly hurt for her to Heal them all, I'm afraid."  He bent and with a fluid motion scooped the Healer up as though she were little more than a child.  In his thickly muscled arms, she looked quite small indeed.  

                                "She needs to rest," the blacksmith said, and made as though he would hand her limp form over to him.  "Here.  You take her, and I'll find the Healer's horse.  She's done all she can, and she should be taken back to her house, if it still stands."  Ashuram looked at the blacksmith for a moment.  Was he handing over the Healer to his care?  How trusting.

                                "Very well," Ashuram said, and took the unconscious half-Elf's form, her head lolling against his shoulder.  She was small, but heavier than she looked; solid, as though most of her mass was muscle.  

                                The blacksmith returned a few moments later, leading the Healer's horse by its reins.  It came reluctantly, but could not fight against the blacksmith's powerful grip.  Ashuram jumped up on the horse's back and the blacksmith handed the Healer's body up to him once more.  Without the saddle, he was forced to hold her against him to keep her from sliding off the horse on either side.  

                                "Tell Veris she needs rest," the blacksmith said firmly up to Ashuram.  "Rest.  She's done all she can for now.  We'll need her help later."  Ashuram could only nod, feeling slightly entertained that the blacksmith trusted him so implicitly.    

                                Almost falling asleep himself, Ashuram urged the mare forward.  The horse was more than happy to get away from the stench of smoldering houses and Orcs, and hardly fought him at all on the way back to the Healer's home.  

 He looked down at the Healer.   She was blood spattered and dusty from lying on the ground, but her face was relaxed and in the ingenuousness of sleep she looked hardly old enough to have taken her Healer's robes.  Her head bumped against his shoulder with the motion of the horse.  His tired arms were aching with supporting her weight before they reached her home.

                                The Healer's house was still standing, he saw, as he rode up, although the door was standing wide open.  The barn had been ransacked.  All the chickens were gone, the grain spilt and ruined under Orc feet, the garden completely trampled and ravaged.  

                                Well, it wasn't his responsibility.  He put the mare out in the field, and carried the Healer into her house. 

                                The house had been turned upside down; the Healer's things were scattered everywhere.  The infirmary was the worst, he realized as he walked into it.  Jars were broken everywhere, herbs ripped down and half nibbled before being discarded.  The pungent smell of salves and medicine filled the air and glass crunched under his booted feet.

                                The beds, however, were clear of debris.  Unsure what else to do, he laid the Healer on one of them, with a little more gentleness than entirely necessary.  

The other bed was too inviting, and he laid down on it, his weary body sinking into the minimal softness of the infirmary cot with a sigh.

                                Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.   

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                

                                Veris woke to find the sun streaming into the infirmary with the melting mellow warmth of late afternoon.  Weariness pulled at her body but she had slept as much as she could.

                                What had happened, exactly?  She remembered Healing the Goodwoman…and then there was nothing.  How had she gotten back to the infirmary?  Veris sat up and looked around, feeling disoriented.  

                                She was horrified to see the state of the infirmary around her.  It was completely wrecked, all of her herbal medicines broken against the floor, all running together in one pungent mixture.  She blinked, unbelieving.  The raiders had certainly been thorough.  Rage bubbled up in her stomach, although it was mostly impotent.  She sighed and stood up, wondering where Ash was.  She carefully picked her way out of the infirmary, stepping over glass and spilt medicines.             

                                Veris walked into the kitchen to find that no part of the house had been left untouched.  The kitchen was a mess, everything edible had been ferreted out and eaten by the raiders.

                                Ash sat at the table in the kitchen, looking as if he were dozing as he rested there, his chin on his fist and his long eyes closed.  As she approached, he opened his eyes and straightened, nodding to her.  

                                "Ash," she said.  "What happened?  How did I get here?"

                                "Magic exhaustion," he said succinctly.  "You collapsed.  The blacksmith asked me to take you home.  Here you are."  

                                "The blacksmith," Veris said, "oh Goddess.  Vesper.  I have to go back and help them."  Ash shrugged.

                                "You may do as you like," he said, "although I have been asked to tell you that you need rest.  Your services will become necessary again, later."  

                                Veris sat down at the other end of the table, resting her head in her hands.

                                "I thank you," she said to him.  He had pulled his hair back, exposing the white skin of his corded throat and the smears of grime he had not yet washed away.  He nodded.

                                "What will you do now, Healer?" He asked curiously.  He gestured around them to the ruins of the house they sat in.  "There isn't much left of Vesper."

                                "I suppose not," Veris agreed sadly.  "I will, of course, do everything I can for the villagers.  Then, perhaps," she looked around at the ruins of her house, "I'll move on.  I've been thinking of moving on for some time now anyway."  

                                "Where will you go?" He asked her.  It was her turn to shrug.

                                "I don't know.  Perhaps I'll go back to Valis, try to find Orson and Shiriss again.  I'm not much of a merc," fleeting smile, "but I'm sure they'd be happy to have a Healer around again."  She frowned thoughtfully, and there was a long pause.

                                "Tomorrow, then," Ash said after a moment, "our ways part.  I thank you for what you've done for me, Healer.  I think I've repaid my debt in full."  She looked at him for a moment, and then slowly nodded.

                                "Yes," she said, "you have.  Vesper – and I – we all owe you a great deal."  Ash nodded, and Veris could almost find it within herself to laugh.  He certainly wasn't one for modesty, was this ex-general from Marmo.  Veris supposed if she had his skills with the sword, she might be arrogant as well.  She'd never seen anyone move as fast as he had.  It was like watching a predator do what instinct drove it to do – centuries of evolution involved in the graceful movement of the kill, nature following its course.  He was as much a predator, she thought, as any hunting cat, and it was obvious he'd been a general because he'd been good at it.  

                                Today, she could be grateful for his skills – without them, many more villagers would have died.  Veris sighed to herself.  

                                "Tomorrow we'll see if we can't salvage some supplies for you," Veris added.  Ash shook his head.

                                "Kind, but impossible," he said.  "There's not much left to salvage, and you will undoubtedly need whatever you can find.  I prefer to travel lightly, at any rate." 

                                A slight sound interrupted him, and suddenly a voice said sardonically: 

                                "How very noble, my lord."

Both the Healer and Ash startled, whipping their heads around to find the source of the voice.

                                A man's frame filled the Healer's front door, waning sunlight giving the figure a purplish aura.  He was tall, although not as tall nor as wide-shouldered as Ash, and he wore a long dark cloak, much as Ash had when he had stumbled into the village.  Dark, shaggy hair brushed his shoulders, giving him something of an effeminate look.  The man had a thin, weasel face, and the eyes above the wide, beak-like nose were half-closed and seemed to hold a dim violet light.  Most curiously, an ornate gold circlet sat on his brow, with two hollows set deeply within it that looked strangely like eyes.  Veris found her gaze pulled to that circlet and she could hardly look away.  It was odd to see a man wear something so beautiful, although it did not look out of place.

                                Ash had risen half way out of his chair, she realized suddenly, and she looked over at him.  His face was pale, his eyes very dark and troubled like a night storm at sea.  His mouth was set in a thin grim line and she could read shock in every line of his body.

                                "You-!" He choked out, locking gazes with the cloaked man. 

                                                *              *              *              *              *              *              *

                                The Grey Witch: the circlet said it all.  He recognized the thief's body she inhabited and found it odd she should be in a man's body - but there was no mistaking the sardonic, lazy expression on the thief's face nor the gleaming golden circlet around his forehead.

                                Karla.  

What could she possibly want with him **now**?  He felt rage build to a steady flame in his veins as he stood there, almost frozen in shock.

Next to him, the Healer Veris stood up.

"I'm sorry," she said to Karla, looking slightly bewildered, "but did you need something?  Are you lost?"

The Witch chuckled dryly.

"Ah, the gracious Healer, ever-helpful," she said, the voice coming out of the thief's mouth curiously asexual.  "She is quite beautiful, do you not think so, my lord?  You are very beautiful, you know," she told the Healer, who looked flustered and murmured some kind of thanks.

"What do you want?" Ashuram bit out gruffly.  

"You have always been someone who will not mince words," the Witch replied.  "Quite refreshing."    She came into the room further, closing the front door behind her.  

"Although I really did not think to find you playing house with our good Healer in the middle of nowhere.  Could it be you have decided to give up the sword, my lord?"  She came in and looked around the room with a critical eye.  She had the curious way of talking that he remembered, slightly formal and old-fashioned, reminiscent of times long past.  It was another indication of her great age.

"Quit bantering and answer me," Ashuram growled fiercely.

                                "You have traversed quite a distance," the Witch observed to him, "yet your eminence has certainly dispersed, my lord.  No one would mistake you for a mighty general now."  Her voice was cool and distant, the words scathing.  He supposed they stung because they were true.  

"What is going on here?" The Healer asked impatiently all at once, obviously sick of feeling bewildered.  "Who are you that just barges into my house as if you own the world?  And what do you mean, 'my lord'?"  She looked between Ashuram and the Witch expectantly, thin gold eyebrows raised over sparkling green eyes.  

The Witch laughed at this, the thief's head going back and a strangely feminine laugh spilling from the man's throat.

"Do you mean to tell me after all this time you have not favored her with your identity?" she asked Ashuram with mirth.  "Modesty, perhaps?  Or cowardice?"

"Karla, you go too far," Ashuram said in a low voice.

"Not possible," the Witch replied, turning to the Healer.  "My dear little half-Elf, you have been happily oblivious to the fact you are harboring the infamous Lord Ashuram, Black Knight of Marmo and Bearer of the Demon sword." 

                                The Healer's face went pale as the moon, her eyes huge.  She regarded Ashuram gravely, her eyes unreadable.

                                "_The_ Lord Ashuram?" She asked in a low voice.  "Not the Black Knight, Lord Beld's general?"

                                "The very same," the Witch replied in her coolly amused voice.

                                "Goddess," the Healer gasped.  "You never said a word."

                                "I did tell you I was a general from Marmo," Ashuram reminded her harshly, too distracted to care about being gentle.   "You told me that it didn't matter if I were Lord Beld himself, remember?"  

                                "You're supposed to be _dead_!" The Healer grated out in disbelief, shaking her head.  "Everyone knows Lord Ashuram is dead."

                                He snorted.

                                "I assure you I am very much alive," he observed wryly.  "Although I was much closer to the Forever Dreaming when you found me that day."

                                "By all rights, you shouldn't be alive," she murmured, nodding to herself, evidently recollecting.  

                                "Oh but he should indeed," the Witch put in.  "He must be alive.  Without him, the balance is thrown off.  Both swords must have Bearers."

                                "So I've been told," Ashuram muttered.  

The Witch chuckled.

                                "Demon sword?" The Healer repeated.  "Not…Soul Crusher?"

                                "The same," Ashuram replied absently.  The Healer blanched again, hands gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled force.  

                                "Goddess," she breathed again.  "This is crazy."  

                                "Evil exists," the Witch said to the Healer in a cool tone,  "because Good does.  They are of equal importance.  Without one, the other cannot be.  Therefore, the balance must be maintained."

                                "Stop _playing_," Ashuram interrupted.  "What are you here for, Witch?"

                                The thief's weasel face smiled a small, sly smile.

                                "Very simple," she said, "I shall come with you to find the Demon sword."

                                There was a brief, tense pause.

                                "How do you know I intend to do that?" Ashuram asked in a low, dangerous voice, as if he were on the verge of breaking into violence.

 "Logical," the Witch said.  "For all your stubborn adherence to your ridiculous human values, you have never been stupid, Lord Ashuram.  That I shall give you credit for."  She paused.  "Furthermore, who do you think sent you the dream of Soul Crusher?"

  Ashuram recalled the whispery, scratchy voice out of his dream and his jaw clenched hard.  So _that_ was why the voice was familiar.  She had been manipulating him even in his dreams.  

                                "You put the geas on me?" He demanded, still in that soft, deadly tone.

                                "Did you ever doubt it?" The Witch asked, looking mildly astonished.  "Who do you think raised you out of the crumbling pit of Marmo?" 

 Ashuram felt himself go pale, and shook his head.

                                "No," he denied her, "The Demon sword did that."  _So Pirotess told me._  

                                "The Demon sword did call to you," she said in the thief's voice, "but even it could not have kept you from dying suspended over Hell as you were.  I did that."    

                                "No," Ashuram repeated stubbornly, shaking his head once more.  "I was told the Demon sword brought me back, will bring me back from death until a new Bearer is found."

                                "And so it shall," the Witch replied.  "Yet under Marmo, so close to Khardis' jealous pull, you were too far gone even for Soul Crusher to reach you.  I had to impart something to make you get up.  I certainly would not have desired you to jump to your death right after I had gone to the trouble of reviving you."  

Ashuram went very still, looking at the Witch with disbelief.

                                "You…brought me back?" he said incredulously.  

                "Indeed yes."  

                                "It cannot be…" Ashuram said with a frown.  "Pirotess said…."

                                The thief smiled that sly, conniving grin again, long mouth curving upwards at the corners cannily.

                                "As to that," she declared, and then, in a perfect imitation of the Dark Elf's husky voice, continued: " 'Wake, my lord.  Wake, and remember me.'"  The Witch looked at Ashuram appraisingly, one eyebrow arched in quiet cynicism.

"Did I do that passably?  She did have such a beautiful voice."

                *              *              *


	13. Elven Sword

Disclaimer: It's been slow going these days

Disclaimer:It's been slow going these days!Anyway, I don't own anybody or anything except Veris, so please don't sue me, Kadokawa & co. – okay?Okay!

**Chapter Thirteen: Elven Sword**

The promise of violence hung thick in the air, and Veris scarcely wanted to breathe against it, afraid she would upset the delicate balance.She stood frozen beside the table, her eyes unable to look anywhere but the dark lord that stood in the middle of the room.

Ash – Ashuram, rather - was poised, drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap.Veris could hear him drawing breath: a slow, restrained hiss through his teeth.She could see the muscles in his arms raised to sharp definition by the powerful clenching of his fists.

"I don't believe it," he said in a barely audible growl to the mage that stood opposite him.She had never seen anyone look so furious…nor so hurt.The mage's words had struck a wound that needed Healing, Veris thought objectively, although that kind of wound was beyond her power to Heal.

"As you like," the man replied to Ashuram with a careless shrug, face still save for the inscrutable little smile that held the corners of his lips up.

Veris edged around the table.

"Perhaps you ought to leave now," she told the mage, preparing to step forward.She was not a tall woman, but she knew how to command attention, and she did it now, wanting to distract Ashuram until his rational mind took over again.She did not want anymore violence.Ever, if she could help it – but in Lodoss, that was almost impossible.

Ashuram was not to be distracted.

"Back," he hissed at her, flinging an arm up to block her way.He did not look at her at all, his attention riveted on the mage.

"Get a hold of yourself," Veris hissed right back, earning herself the barest flicker of furious dark eyes.

A low chuckle filled the room, and Veris darted her gaze to the mage's face.Who _was_ this guy, anyway?He was really beginning to get on her nerves, with his enigmatic proclamations and penchant for melodramatic laughter.

"Ah," the mage said in a knowing voice to Ashuram, "_here_ is one that will not worship you, my lord, nor take orders.Perhaps you ought to let the Forever Dreaming have her, as you did with-"

Veris was flung forcefully aside as Ashuram leapt for the mage with an inarticulate snarl of rage, finally pushed beyond all endurance.

*******

He hardly knew what he was doing until his body was in motion, tossing the Healer out of the way roughly in his determination to get to the Witch.The blacksmith's sword came to his hand as he surged forward, springing at that smug smile with only one thought in his mind.

_Pirotess.How many times must I lose you?_

Karla did not even move aside as he came within striking distance, sword within an inch of thrusting through those purple robes and finding the heart of the body she wore.

"Now, now," he heard her murmur instead, and suddenly he was flung away as easily as if he were a rag.

With force that drove the air from his lungs with painful abruptness, he was slammed against the wall.He found himself on his knees all at once, head ringing with the impact, the thrum of collision vibrating through him.Shaking his head to clear it, he sprung to his feet once more.Pain added itself to anger, and he launched himself at the Witch again.

He was slammed back against the wall once more, dust raining down on him as the impact of his body shifted the foundation of the wall.He slid to his knees, catching himself just barely before he sprawled on the ground, senseless.

He hissed through the pain that shocked through him, fighting the power that kept him from his goal.Impotent fury coursed over him, and it drove him to keep struggling to his feet, the Witch's death smoldering in his dark eyes.

"Stop it, stop it!" he heard the Healer demand through the ringing in his ears.Before he could try to attack the Witch again, he was once more thrown against the wall, head bouncing hard.His sword hand was slammed against the wall to make him release his grip on the hilt, but he kept his hand clenched tight.Again and again his arm was smashed against the wall until he could feel the wood beginning to buckle under his knuckles.His fingers, however, did not loosen.He was far too stubborn for that.

"_That__'s enough,_" he heard the Healer say in a calm, quiet voice, but the words echoed in his ears as if she had shouted them through a battle horn.He felt the spell holding him loosen, and looked up in befuddled curiosity.

She stood in the middle of the room, between him and the Grey Witch.Her back was to him, but he could see her sword was drawn.He blinked hard, not sure the impact to his head had made his vision strange.But no – the runes along the sword _were_ glittering, with a fey luminosity that pulled at his eyes harshly.When he squinted his eyes against it and turned his head away slightly, he could see with his peripheral vision that both the sword and the Healer were bathed in a faint green glow that surrounded her like an aureole of flickering green flame.She seemed to be standing in a wind, although the air in the room was still; her robes and hair moved and stirred about her as if a stiff breeze plucked at them.

He could see the Witch's spell deflecting all around her, bouncing off an invisible barrier like hard rain hitting a window.

Ashuram straightened, pulling himself away from the wall with a grimace.He would be black and blue in a few hours and his head throbbed fiercely, but he had more important things to think about than how much his body ached.Like, what the hell was going on here?The Healer had collapsed just this morning – had it only been _this _morning? – from magic exhaustion.Where was this incredible power coming from?

Even the Witch seemed taken aback.Karla's spell stopped abruptly.Just as abruptly the glow faded from the runes on the thin Elven sword, although Ashuram could see the faint green aura still surrounded the Healer.

"Impressive," Karla murmured."That is quite a talent you have, my dear."

"I think you ought to leave," Veris repeated her earlier demand, only her voice was leached now of warmth and feeling, as emotionless as if she were speaking through cold iron.

"I shall leave by and by," the Witch replied, beginning to move slightly to the left.She was circling, he saw at once, her purple gaze intent on the Healer.He saw Veris recognized her actions almost as soon as he did, for she moved as the Witch moved, making sure her sword was between her body and the Witch.Ashuram was shocked to see, as the Healer turned so her face was visible to him, that hereyes were swallowed in the same green glow that pulsed around her skin, her pupils completely lost in a sea of luminous malachite.What _was_ this?

"You'll leave now," the Healer said, still in that detached voice, her face blank save for the feylight burning in her eyes.She took a step forward aggressively. 

The Witch cast another spell.He only knew this because the Healer suddenly took a step back as though someone had shoved her, and again at the sword the spell parted to be deflected harmlessly around the petite half-Elf.Karla did not bother with chanting or waving her fingers in the way Wagnard had so loved to do, calling on his dark Goddess with such passionate abandon.She simply let the spell fly from her, andthen he could see the Witch's power breaking around that rune-covered sword like water breaking around a rock._ Water breaking around a rock__…fire breaking around a slender Elven body__…_Ashuram shook his head to clear it.

"Where did you get such an _interesting_ sword?" The Witch questioned, trying a different tactic.She cast a volley of spells, each one breaking in different colors around the Healer, pushing Veris back a step or half-step with every onslaught.The Witch kept circling, and Veris moved to face her.

Ashuram suddenly saw what the Witch was doing.She was maneuvering the Healer into a corner, intent on trapping her.He wanted to yell a warning, but was afraid to disturb the Healer's concentration.

All at once, the spells stopped.He saw Karla take a step back, her shoulders relaxing.There was sudden silence, and he could see the rune-light fade from the Healer's sword.As soon as it had begun, the magic show was over.The thief's long-fingered hands came up in an easily-understood gesture of peace.

"It is clear that your sword is more than I had bargained for," the Witch said in an inscrutable voice."Put it away, now; I am through with testing for the moment."

Ashuram could not help snorting disrespectfully.He did not for a moment trust the Witch, and he could see it was clear the Healer did not, either.The green light still burned in her wide eyes and she did not move even to blink, staring at the Witch.

The Witch made an impatient gesture.

"I mean what I say," she said."I will not try an enchantment on you again tonight."

"That's rather a tall order," The Healer replied."If you don't mind I'll reserve judgment, thanks."

"Very well," Karla replied, "although it was not I who began this."A cool purple gaze swept across Ashuram's face pointedly.

There was a soft, contained sound of dispersed air from the fireplace, and all at once the room was lit by a cheerfully flickering fire that seemed to burn without wood.The lantern on the table lit itself, and a more cozy light returned to fill the small kitchen and front hallway.

"Let us declare a truce," Karla said, moving towards the table."I shall admit my curiosity got the better of me, but after all – we are not barbarians."

Ashuram watched curiously as the feylight faded slowly from the Healer's eyes, the dark pupils reemerging from the green flood. 

*******

Veris felt the power gathered in her disperse, leaving a faint tingling behind that lingered in her fingertips and toes.The warmth of the spell suddenly gone, she shivered.

_How long has it been_?, she thought to herself, looking down at the Elven sword still in her grasp.Her hands trembled as they always did, afterwards._And what the hell was that all about__…?_Then, _No, Ver- don__'t think about it now._

She walked over to the table purposefully, hiding the trembling by crossing her arms tightly.Veris pulled a chair out from the table and stood by it, pointedly looking from one to the other.

After a moment, Ashuram reluctantly pulled himself to his feet and sauntered over.He brushed dust from himself nonchalantly as he approached, as if getting flung up against a wall several times happened to him all the time.Despite the calm settled over him like a threadbare cloak, she could see murderous rage smoldering in his sable eyes, and the muscles of his jaw stood out in high relief as he clenched his teeth together.She knew it had to have hurt, but he seemed to be only furious and wary, not injured.

The other man – she _still _had yet to really catch his name – walked over with a curious stride, almost as if he had hips.Before sitting down, he ran a slender hand through shaggy long hair in a gesture that looked habitual and unaffected.

_What the hell is going on?_, the Healer thought to herself before she joined them at the table.She sat herself warily, looking between Ashuram and the mage, laying her sword across her lap under the table in case she should need it again._If that lean mage is right and this truly*is* Lord Ashuram, then one of the most famous villains in all of history is sitting at my kitchen table._

Veris' irrepressible sense of humor bubbled up then, and she could not help but think _funny, he doesn't really **seem** all that scary.I mean, Goddess, I had to escort him to the privy once! _

Yet if he was Lord Ashuram – which she felt was more than a possibility: he had seemed somehow familiar and he certainly knew what he was doing with a sword – then here was the man responsible for many of the atrocities of the war against Marmo, perhaps even the death of her parents; however, she rather doubted that.He didn't look old enough.He didn't quite seem to be old enough to be the legendary black knight either, although she did have to admit he had plenty of scars to show his fluency in battle.Veris sobered, her good humor fading completely.She turned away to look at the mage.

Here was something else entirely.This man, she felt afraid of.She had never seen somebody with such tremendous magical ability!He had so easily thrown Ashuram against the wall, without batting an eyelash.It was like coming face to face with one of the mages out of legend.Somehow, he didn't seem quite human.

And maybe she was afraid of him because her immediate reaction to his spell had been one of defense: one that burned through her, filled her mouth with heat, ran through her veins and singed along all her nerve endings with a familiar power that she had almost forgotten about-

_Don't_, she told herself, shaking her head to clear it. 

"I have to ask," Ashuram said at last, in an unwilling voice, looking as though it cost him a great deal to force the words out, "what happened to…where is Pirotess?"

_Hmm,_ Veris thought to herself, _who, or what, is Pirotess?_

The mage leveled a cool purplish gaze on him, long mouth curling up into the snide suggestion of a smirk.

"You know very well, Lord Ashuram," he replied in that strange voice that hovered somewhere between being feminine and masculine and was neither in a way that sounded merely inhuman.

Ashuram's eyes closed with a look of pain, and she noticed that one of his hands crept up to touch the pendant hanging about his throat.Ah ha.So that was the meaning behind that particular piece of jewelry.Another bit of the mystery solved.She wondered briefly who Pirotess had been to him.

"Damn you, Karla," Ashuram said softly, but with real hatred."You old meddlesome bitch."Veris' eyebrows rose at the sound of the unmistakably feminine name and the unmistakably feminine epithet.She wondered if Ashuram were merely being extremely insulting – the man did look somewhat effeminate, after all.

The man chuckled, although it did not really seem to be in humor.

"How little you truly know," he said."All you short-lived creatures, you are all blinded by the light of your own short existence.Lodoss must survive, with or without you."What was this about Lodoss?Veris shifted in her chair, made uneasy by the casual way this mage threw words of great import into the conversation as if talking about the weather.

"And which Goddess was it made you absolute authority in their place?" Ashuram asked coolly."Who are you to dictate the fate of Lodoss?"

"Goddess?" The mage scathed."Oh, I'm far more."

Veris suddenly stood up.

"You know, from the beginning this has obviously been a conversation between the two of you," she said, obviously uncomfortable."I shouldn't pry.I'll just be in the next-"

"No, Healer, you should stay," the mage said, taking hold of her wrist andpulling her back into her seat."We do not mind, do we, my lord?" And the mage stroked Veris' hair as though she were a favored pet, murmuring "lovely," in a quiet voice.Veris pulled away, alarmed and annoyed.

"Alright, then.If you want me here, you can answer some of my questions.Just who _are_ you?" Veris asked bluntly, turning to the mage.Her apprehension of him faded in the face of her irritation at his manner of impossible arrogance.

"It's not who, but what," Ashuram replied, sounding bitter."That beside you is the Grey Witch Karla, an ancient entity, old as the dragons.She has a vision for Lodoss which no one else seems to be privy to… and a penchant for manipulation."His words were laced with heavy irony.

"How flattering you are," the mage replied dryly.

"She?" Veris repeated, confused. 

"Oh, did I forget to mention it?" Ashuram asked drolly."She also steals b-"

"Silence," the mage said, and Ashuram stopped speaking all at once as if his vocal chords had been cut."You would do well to remember to be a little more respectful of me, _my lord_."Ashuram did not say a thing, coerced into silence.

Veris shook her head.

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," she said with characteristic candidness, "but I can tell you I want no part of it.If you're going to find the Demon sword, I suggest you leave sooner rather than later.I fulfilled my duties as a Healer to you," she said to Ashuram, "and as you pointed out, we're quite even on that score.Feel free to leave any time."

Ashuram, obviously in agreement, was gravely nodding.

However, she found the mage slanting that sly fox-like gaze on her measuringly.

"We shall leave soon enough, Healer," he said smoothly."Do not fret about that."

"I'm not fretting," she growled, exasperated, "I'm positively looking forward to your going.Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a clinic to put back into order."The Healer got up and left, wanting to put some distance between herself and all of the information she'd suddenly learned this evening about those in her house.

Grey Witch and Black Knight, she thought to herself with a snort of incredulity._Does that make me Green Healer, or what?When they go, life will get back to normal again__…._

Veris looked down at the Elven sword with an impassive stare.

********

"I fear the Healer is wroth with us," the Witch said to him when the Healer had left."She has quite a temper.Still - she may be no Pirotess, but she is very lovely.I see now why you have not yet moved on."

"You ought to leave her alone," Ashuram warned the Witch, trying hard to keep his voice level.His anger only amused her."She's insignificant." Karla fixed him with a wily gaze, purple eyes smug.

"Oh, really?" she drawled coldly in that strange asexual voice."Not quite true.The Healer is very significant.I, at least,have great plans for her."

Ashuram could only shake his head.

"Surely such a powerful entity has better things to do than entangle the lives of a backwater Healer and an ex-general," he said scathingly, arching an eyebrow.

The Witch chuckled.The thin furtive face of the thief made the amused expression devious.

"How little credit you give yourselves," she said merely.Ashuram closed his eyes briefly, unwilling to put his resentment into words.He should have known -whatever opposition he raised, she would only become more infuriating.This was the second time he'd had to recall this lesson, he remembered; fighting the Grey Witch was nearly impossible.

"Oh, hardly," Ashuram replied, but when he looked up again, the Witch had vanished, as quietly and as suddenly as she had come.

_Somehow_, he thought to himself almost distantly, _I have to find a way to kill that Witch._

***


	14. The Grey Witch

Veris swept the last of the broken glass into the dustpan, and looked around at the infirmary with a critical eye

Disclaimer: Lodoss isn't mine, nor are any of the Lodoss characters.The title of this chapter is also, of course, the title of one of the Lodoss episodes, which I also don't own.The name, I mean, not the episode – I do have one of those.

Warning: This chapter contains some slightly disturbing material…so…read at your own risk!Thanks. ^-~

**Chapter Fourteen: The Grey Witch**

Veris swept the last of the broken glass into the dustpan, and looked around at the infirmary with a critical eye.Most of the shelves were nearly bare, and the dried herbs were gone, but it looked a bit more like a clinic than it had before.

Feeling slightly better that she had actually accomplished something useful, Veris sighed and put the broom away.She looked out the window.The sun had set and night had stolen the twilight.

She realized the house was quiet.Veris walked out into the kitchen to find Ashuram still at the kitchen table, apparently lost in thought.He was alone, resting head in hands, and did not look up as she entered.

"Where's your friend?" She asked curiously.

Ashuram, without moving, looked up andgave her a supremely contemptuous glare.

"The Grey Witch is no friend of mine," he said, and she could almost hear the steam rising off of the scorn in his words."Nor yours, neither," he added.He was frowning ferociously.

"Be that as it may," Veris said after a pause.

Ashuram looked up at her and shrugged.Veris realized he either did not know where the mage had gone or was not speaking of it – regardless, she wasn't going to get an answer from him.

"Well, good night then," the Healer said, starting to leave.

"Wait," Ashuram said.She turned and raised a gold eyebrow at him archly.Was this man allergic to saying please?She crossed her arms impatiently.

"Yes?" 

"Your sword," Ashuram said, gesturing with his sharp chin to the sword that rode beside her hip."Where did it come from?"Veris almost chuckled, shaking her head.Such restraint, this one!She had the feeling he really meant to be asking _what the hell happened with you and that sword??_, but he didn't.It was against his nature to show that much interest.

"My father made it," she said, lips curved up into a gently amused smile.

"Ah," he said."He must have been quite a metal-smith."

"I suppose," Veris said with a shrug."He made it long before I was born."

"Ah," Ashuram said again, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at her."I wonder what other things remain hidden about you, Healer.There is certainly more here than meets the eye."

Veris felt a rush of apprehension go through her._I just want to be a small town Healer_, she found herself thinking suddenly._Nothing more than that, no more than meets the eye.I want a simple, easy life-_

But-

"Perhaps," she was forced to concede quietly."Although you telling me that is certainly the pot calling the kettle black."

Ashuram gave her the closest thing to a smile he'd offered since she had lain eyes on him.He looked sorely out of practice.

"Perhaps," he echoed her."Good night, Healer."

"Good night," she replied."I'll see you in the morning."He nodded once, and then resumed his thoughtful pose, chin resting on his fist as he gazed into nowhere.

Veris climbed the narrow stairs to her room, realizing how exhausted she was._I'll sleep well tonight_, she thought, unbuckling her sword and propping it beside her bed._And perhaps I won't even remember my dreams…_

She changed for sleep and crawled into her bed, pulling the covers over her against the slightly damp spring chill in the room.She lay back against the pillows, closing her eyes and sighing softly.

_What a mess life has been these days,_ she reflected wryly._Between the Black Knight and the Orcs and…Karla, or whatever his name is, I've certainly had plenty to deal with._

She found herself thinking about Ashuram.It really was incredible to believe he was the Black Knight.She supposed she ought to feel some sort of undiminished hatred for him, disgust for his very presence, but she did not.She wanted to, but she couldn't.Before he was Ashuram, he had been simply Ash – dirty, starved and hurt, no different than any other patient she had treated.Yes, he was demanding and he had an ego the size of a barn, but she could see he was human – not the monster legend made him out to be.Really, he was quite a shabby personification of Lord Beld's dark General, if she used the legends built up around him as a standard.

__Veris shook her head.Villains were supposed to be _villains._Evil was supposed to be easily recognizable.Ashuram had fought for Marmo – the wrong side – and she felt as though she should naturally recognize him as her enemy.But he wasn't her enemy.In fact, hadn't he helped defend Vesper from a near army of Orcs? _Vesper_, Veris thought, a pang of remorse spearing her.It was hard to believe the whole thing had only taken place the night before.Instead of lying lazily in bed, she ought to be helping the villagers.However, she knew them – after such a thing, they wanted time to lick their wounds and to regroup in private.She had already Healed as many of the mortally wounded as she was able.The rest…well, Vesper would want to bury their dead in peace, and they certainly didn't need her getting in the way while they went about the business of grieving.

She wondered what had prompted Ashuram to volunteer to help.Saving small backwater villages certainly didn't seem to be something the Bearer of a demon sword would be prone to doing.Yet, he had thrown himself wholly into fighting Orcs, looking alive as he had not before, his dark eyes alight with some inner heat, deadly purpose to his movements.She could remember vividly seeing him loom before her, firelight caught in the depths of his eyes and tangled in the long length of his hair, as he stretched his hand out to her to help her to her feet.This after he had killed two Orcs seemingly in one fluid motion, apparently without effort.

Perhaps that was it, Veris reflected.Rather than a desire to save Vesper, perhaps it was the battle itself he loved.If that were the case, did that not make him exactly the monster he was alleged to be?_Yet I too am driven by the love of the sword_, Veris found herself thinking with the old self-doubt._Aren't we the same, then, for loving the same thing?Although it isn't death I crave…just the clash of swords.Is it that he enjoys bringing death?_

And then, the thought slipped in before she realized it, _if Valis had used him to their advantage…if we'd had something like that on our side…imagine how fast the war would have ended…_

Veris shook her head at herself.She knew her feelings about the war with Marmo were still confused, and Ashuram tied into that confusion.As usual, she was over-analyzing and over-interpreting.

In the long run, she knew, it didn't matter what she thought._They'll be gone tomorrow,_ she told herself, snuggling down into the covers and nestling her cheek against the pillow, _and my role in their story will be finished._She knew she was not a hero – she wasn't destined for greatness, nor did she desire it.She was Vesper's Healer, and that was fine with her.What she felt about Ashuram and the mage would ultimately mean little, for she would never see them again.Thank the Goddess.

However, she couldn't help feeling a niggling doubt, a strange feeling of foreboding._The sword, _she thought drowsily, exhaustion pulling her towards sleep._Someday, I really ought to find out how my father made the thing, and why it bathes me ingreen fire every time there's magic around…._

Her thoughts trailed off, and soon Veris was asleep.

*******

She dreamed, of course.

She hadn't dreamt of Valis in a long time.It was a dream, but it was a dream of a memory, one that was like looking into a window on her childhood.

"Concentrate."That was her Teacher's voice, showing her the way to Heal a burn. She could recall the old woman in perfect detail; the ageless, round-apple face, two bright eyes like currants set in the deep folds of old laugh lines.Those eyes almost disappeared when she smiled, and she smiled often for Veris, her young pupil.

"Veris, pay attention," the old woman's voice came again, admonishing.Her voice was like the crackle of willow wands bending, kind but firm.

"I am," Veris replied, trying to capture the spell in her mind.She remembered many long hours spent thus with the old Healer: kneeling on the dusty oak floor, brows creased in concentration, the day slipping slowly by outside while she mastered the old techniques.

Suddenly there was a scream from outside, followed by a tremendous bellow of rage, the sound a crazed animal would make.Something huge, a bear perhaps, or – worst of all – an Orc.

Veris looked up, spell flown from her mind, the blue glow beginning to form around her fingertips extinguished.

"What, by Marfa's blessed robe, was that?" the Teacher asked, getting to her feet.Veris followed, heart pounding, hilt of her father's sword digging in to her ribs where her tightly-clamped elbow pressed it against her skin painfully.

There was a flash of bright red in the sunlight, and Shiriss was standing in their doorway, panting, her eyes huge and her face pale.

"Orson," Shiriss said between breaths, "It's Orson!One of the kids teased him about being so tall and threw stones…Veris, come quickly and help me!You know how he gets!"

Veris did, indeed, know how Orson got.She had grown up with him; she knew one simply did not make the tall, soft-spoken orphan mad.Ever.He went into a killing rage.He was a Berserker, and for a long time people had merely assumed he was crazed, good for nothing but warfare and taking care of animals.In fact it was her Teacher that had passed the diagnosis that Orson was not crazy at all, but rather possessed by the spirit of Hyuris.

Veris ran out after her friend, across the field to the tourney grounds where the soldiers practiced.Yes, there was Orson, in the middle of the practice field, sword drawn and muscular shoulders hunched.He already had the height and width of a full-grown man, which fooled people into thinking he was no longer a boy – but it wasn't true, he was just as young as any of them, and he could not control it when Hyuris took him.

As they drew closer she saw that his hair was standing on end and the telltale red glow was bright in his eyes.A line of blood was beading on his dark cheek, probably where he'd been nicked by the stone.

"Orson," Shiriss called, in her sweetest voice.Somehow he always responded better to Shiriss than he did to anyone else – Veris included.He and Shiriss were very close, so close that sometimes Veris envied them.Orson turned towards them, head lowered and red gaze seeking blindly, like a bull about to charge.Veris felt the sudden rush of fear she always felt, the knowledge that he could kill them in a heartbeat resting heavily on her.

Suddenly, Veris felt the hilt of the sword pressed against her ribs jerk.She froze.It had _moved_, by itself.She looked down at it, distracted.The hilt moved again, shuddering, and Veris could see a green glow beginning to rise up from it like smoke.

"What the-?"Not thinking, she drew the sword.The lightly etched runes on the blade were glowing fiercely.

"Veris, what are you doing?" Shiriss demanded."You know what the sight of a sword does to- Oh holy hell, Ver, run!"Orson had seen the sword, and he howled now in new fury, starting to charge towards them.

"Run!" Shiriss told Veris again, pulling on her friend's arm.

Yet something happened.Orson slowed and at last stopped, sword lowering slightly, to stare at them in confusion.

"What…what's going on?" Shiriss asked.

"I don't know," Veris replied truthfully.

"By Falis' iron balls," Shiriss swore breathlessly, "what the hell is happening with your sword?"

"I wish I knew!" Veris said."It's never done this before!"

"Well, you usually have better sense than to wear it when Orson's like this!" Shiriss retorted, and Veris knew it was true.She hadn't worn her sword before when Orson had gone Berserk.Was it his going Berserk that made the sword glow like this?

"Look!" Shiriss said, pointing to Orson.His sword was touching the ground, his head lowered in confusion and the red glow less violent in his eyes.Shiriss ran forward, talking to him in a soothing voice, reaching her hands out to touch his face and to ease the sword from his hands as she always did when it was apparent the Berserker rage was leaving him.

As the red glow died from Orson's eyes, the green faded from the slender Elven blade.The runes still have off a glittery light, but that too diminished until at last Veris was looking down at a very normal Elven sword, lightly etched with runes she could not read and in need of a good polishing.

Veris saw that Orson was leaning against Shiriss, exhausted, and she struggled to hold his weight up.Veris approached them, and Shiriss turned to look at the Healer-in-training over her shoulder.

"Okay," she said in her blunt, no-nonsense voice that later Veris would emulate so well, "what the hell just happened there?"

"I have no idea," Veris repeated, with a shrug."It just…all of the sudden…"

"I remember that sword," Orson said suddenly in his quiet, deep voice."I saw it…in the rage."Shiriss and Veris just stared at him for a moment.He had always sworn he could remember nothing after the rage had passed him.The actions that he performed when Hyuris had hold of him were lost to him when he came back to his rational mind.Yet he remembered the sword?

"What do you mean?" Shiriss demanded, impatient as always –especially against something she did not understand."You never remember anything."

"I know," Orson agreed, speaking in his measured way."But I remember the sword.Everything was red…but the sword, it was all green.The red was pushed out by that sword and the rage went away."It was a long speech for Orson, but he looked strange - moved somehow.There was something profound and heartfelt in his clear brown eyes.

__"Why didn't you tell us?" Shiriss asked Veris.

"I didn't know!" Veris said for the third time."I've never seen anything like that happen before."

"Hmph.Likely story," Shiriss said, but now she was teasing, grinning broadly."Jeez, Ver, we know who to call next time Orson cracks up," she said, making a twirling gesture next to her head.

"Thank you, Veris," Orson said solemnly, almost bowing to her.

"Don't thank me, I didn't do it," the young half-Elf protested earnestly."Crikey.Doesn't anybody listen around here?"

The glowing sword…Veris had asked her Teacher about it, but she didn't know.No one seemed to.It happened if Veris was wearing the sword aroundOrson when he was possessed by Hyuris, and every time he saw the fey bright runes , it calmed him down.

The first time she got a glimpse of the Marmoan mage Wagnard, the sword glowed brilliantly.It had almost jumped to her hand, then, rattling in the sheath as though it were alive.

It happened again when she fought off a Dark Elven mage during the war.He had muttered something in Elven upon seeing the sword and promptly disappeared.

It was magic that triggered it, that much she knew.It didn't happen when she fought against normal people, only when there was magic in the vicinity, especially that which might be trained against her.

Dream…memory…it all mixed together here, but her mind could not find the answer it sought in either place, and the Healer slept on.

*******

Veris came awake all at once in the darkness, heart beating quickly, her palms and soles of her feet clammy.No matter how many times it happened to her, she still would never grow used to being woken up in such an abrupt, unpleasant fashion.

This time, however, it hadn't been dreams that had driven her to wakefulness.No, something had awoken her, something outside of her dreaming mind. But what…?

Veris sat up, rubbing her eyes and peering around herself in the darkness.Her darksightpierced the night easily, but her room appeared empty.She couldn't make out anything that seemed to be out of the ordinary.Yet unease sat heavily in her belly and the strange sense of foreboding she'd had earlier was heavier now.

Suddenly, she heard a quiet rattling sound, a clatter as of metal on metal.Veris glanced down at the sword.It was beginning, just barely, to glow with that faint green aura.As she watched, it rattled again, jerking as if some unseen hand were pulling on it.Veris looked up, frowning fiercely.What was going on?

Purple eyes seemed to materialize out of the darkness at the end of her room beyond her bed.Veris gasped in shock as the outline of the mage came into view.She pulled the blankets up reflexively in a protective gesture, earning herself a low chuckle.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Veris asked the mage angrily."This is my bedroom!"

"I am aware of that," the mage answered, stepping out of the shadows as if through a doorway.

"Do you always go where you are not welcome?" Veris snapped, gauging the distance between her and the sword briefly.

"I go where ever I choose," the mage replied, voice lofty and cool.He took a step forward towards her.

Veris could only think one thing._Male mage in my bedroom…this man means me harm_.She lunged for the sword quickly, her fingers just barely closing around the sheathe before her limbs froze, spell-caught.The sword flung itself out of her hands to tumble across the room and clatter against the far wall.

"That is quite enough of that ridiculous sword," the mage said, sounding contemptuous.He advanced towards her, and Veris, frozen, could do nothing but watch.

"How beautiful you are," the mage murmured, and Veris felt a cold shock of fear go through her."Such a lovely half-Elf…and with magic ability as well.Yes, I will enjoy this very much."Veris tried to get away, to fight the spell that held her, but she was caught like a fish in a net.

The mage reached for Veris' face, bringing his face very close to hers.

"What are you doing?" Veris managed to gasp as the mage pressed his forehead against hers ungently.Purple eyes stared into wide, startled green ones, and a low chuckle wrapped itself around Veris, seeming to echo in her own head.

"Moving," the mage replied with a feral grin, and then everything went dark.

*******

Ashuram came awake with a start, disoriented and groggy.He had fallen asleep leaning across the kitchen table, and his face hurt where it had lain pressed against the wood for so long.He blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and looked around.

A noise had awoken him.As he listened, he heard it again, a thump and sudden clatter from upstairs.

He could hear the Healer's voice, saying something.She sounded angry.And…fearful.

Ashuram suddenly remembered the Witch.

Karla.

He wondered where, exactly, the Witch had gotten to.Picking up the sword he had lain beside his chair, Ashuram ran up the stairs to the Healer's room, flinging open the door.

He blinked several times, trying to get used to seeing in the dark.Suddenly a dark shape pushed past him, and as Ashuram was moved roughly aside, he could see the moonlight catch the weasel-like profile of the thief.Was that the Witch?Where was she going?As he listened, he could hear her run down the stairs and slam open the front door.

"Veris?" Ashuram asked quietly, at last able to make out her form on the bed.Something very strange was going on here."Are you all right?"

"Better than ever," she said, standing up from the bed and walking towards him.He could see her hair had come loose from the braid and cascaded over her shoulders in a pale red-gold flood.Her nightgown was in disarray, and the sword she normally wore was nowhere to be seen.

"Healer, are you sure?" He asked.

Then he saw it.The gold and purple diademsitting across her forehead like another pair of eyes, the ornate circlet attached to her as though it were part of her, the sides of it disappearing into her hair.

He almost groaned but caught himself just in time, anger making his jaw clench tightly.He should have expected something like this, of course – but he was far too late now to make a difference.

"Very sure," the Witch replied through Veris' mouth.

The familiar, hated chuckle filled the room. 

***


	15. Trial by Journey

Sorry for the long hiatus

Sorry for the long hiatus!I'll try to post chapters more regularly these days, although I'll be the first to admit I am a slooooow writer!Anyway, thanks for being so patient and I hope, as always, you continue to enjoy the story and review!Thanks! ^-^

Oh yeah – and as usual I don't own Lodoss or any of the established Lodoss characters.

Chapter 15:Trial by Journey 

"It is quite amazing," the Witch said to her silent traveling companion."I had not considered taken a half-Elven body until recently.Elves are, in general, resistant to that kind of magic.However, apparently half-Elves are not."

Ashuram, walking along side, said nothing.He had said nothing since early this morning when he realized what had happened to the Healer.He was quite good at keeping his own council, and exercised the talent now.

She spoke down to him from where she rode sidesaddle on the Healer's evil-spirited mare.The horse had tried to nip him already several times during the course of the morning, but strangely enough, was not fighting the Witch.Whether it was because the horse still mistook Karla for Veris, he was not sure, but she offered no rebellion to the Witch, as if instinctively knowing how dangerous that might be.The foul-tempered thing had no qualms about trying to bite _him_, however, and he had to watch out for those long, vicious teeth.

Ashuram glanced up at the Witch.She was already perfectly at home in the Healer's body, as if it had always been hers.The Healer's green eyes now looked languorous, half-open and seeming to be overlaid with a violet haze, like the eyes of some lizard or satiated beast of prey.The Healer's pink, full lips were turned up at the corners in a detached smirk.She wore the telltale dark cloak over the Healer's grey robes, and the Healer's golden hair fell in a long, straight cascade well past her shoulders.

The Healer's sword was tied to the saddle, behind the Witch where it could not touch her.She seemed reluctant to get close to it, Ashuram had noted carefully, leaving him to pack it this morning before they had started out.The sword had tingled in his hand when he had picked it up, not quite burning but almost as if it shifted at his touch - as if he held something alive that did not particularly want to be held by him.It had left him with the clear feeling that the sword had _recognized_ him in some way – and he suspected it was because of this that the Witch did not want to touch it.The green flames might flicker and attack this time, instead of merely defending.

_It knows us for what we are_, Ashuram found himself thinking._Creatures cut of the same cloth._He darted his gaze to the Witch again.Then, _no_, he amended._I may be ruthless, but I stick to my precepts.That creature is completely amoral._

They were headed in a westerly direction, towards Valis.He had been in no mood to discuss where they were headed this morning, although Valis seemed the most logical decision to him.The boy – man, rather, who now held the Demon sword had been a knight of Valis, after all.Whether he still remained in Valis would remain to be seen.

He glanced again at the Witch.He suspected _she_ could tell him where Parn was, quite simply enough.She had, in any case, found _him_, hadn't she?He would not ask her, however.He would not ask the Witch for anything.

The village of Vesper was long behind them.Ashuram guessed they had been walking almost half a day.It felt good to be moving again, the stiffness gone from his limbs at last.The day was chill but walking had warmed him up.He did not begrudge the Witch the Healer's horse, although he suspected had it truly been the Healer beside him, she would have offered to trade off occasionally.Karla, of course, did no such thing.

The countryside all around them was mostly farmland, dotted with occasional small wooded areas that had not yet been cleared away for agriculture.The road was deserted, save for them; he had not seen another traveler all morning.The air was silent, save for the steady plodding of the horse's hooves in the dust and the occasional bird singing from the long grasses beside the road.

Ashuram lost count of how many miles passed in that relative silence.

*******

When night began falling, they were nowhere near the comforts of a town, or even a solitary farmhouse.Ashuram reckoned they had left Alania behind long ago and were now deep into the unclaimed territory that separated Kanon from its neighbors.All that stood around them now were woods, deep and dense, that might hold anything.His dark sight was good, he knew – better than most humans – from years spent in the dimness of Marmo, but the coming of night still made him edgy, his ears sharpened tenfold to hear what his eyes might miss.

When the Witch spoke to him, he nearly jumped.She spoke quietly but her voice sounded loud in the relative stillness of the forest.

"We'll stop here for the night," she said, gesturing to a little clearing that stood a few paces away from the road.Ashuram nodded, agreeing, and the Witch dismounted.As she saw to the horse, he began gathering firewood.

When he had a sizable pile of dry branches and kindling, he realized he had no flint with him to start a fire.Furthermore, he had brought little with him in the way of food, and he was hungry.Without a second thought he set down his pack and disappeared into the woods around him.

It was difficult searching for flint in the dimness, but eventually he found two rocks he thought might suffice and stored them in his pocket.He also found a few heavy stones slightly smaller than his fist, and these he also kept with him.He had no bow and arrow, nor anything in the way of a projectile weapon with him.Fortunately, when he had been a boy, his older sister had taught him how to hunt rabbits with a sling.Remembering her, he cut a long length from his cloak clumsily with the blacksmith's sword.It was ragged, but it would work.Lying down in the darkness, he prepared to wait for something to cross his path.

"You've got to be patient," he remembered his older sister's voice saying with amusement as she showed him how to wait."Don't move at all.Rabbits aren't smart, Ash, but they're timid, and they'll run from anything."He had nodded solemnly.Often, what they caught with their slings, lying on their bellies in the underbrush, was all that filled the pot from week to week.The memories of growing up in Kanon, long buried, seemed to flood over him as he lay there in the chill, deepening night.

He waited motionless for hours.The stars came out beyond the dark canopy of trees above him and slowly pinwheeled as the night crept on.Nothing came by him, although he heard a rustle once perhaps fifty paces to his right.Even as he raised his arm to fling the stone, the rustle became still and did not sound again.

Stubborn as he was, even he had to admit defeat eventually.He stood up softly and brushed twigs and leaves from himself.Disgusted, he tucked the sling away and made his way back to the clearing they had chosen to spend the night in.

As he grew closer, he could see the distinctive warm glow of firelight flickering through the trees.The familiar scent of roasting rabbit reached his nose, causing his stomach to growl loudly and intensifying the disgust he felt, both with himself and the entire situation.

Ashuram stepped through the trees, and the Witch looked up at him with a broad, malicious grin.She knew exactly where he had been and it was obvious he had not been successful at all.

"I grew tired of waiting," she said, gesturing to the half-gone rabbit carcass hanging above the fire on a well-constructed spit.

Magic.It was so much a part of the Witch.He wondered briefly what she would be without it.Of course she could have done this easily from the beginning, but he had a feeling she quite enjoyed feeding his enmity toward her.So, clamping down hard on the resentment he felt, Ashuram took the remains of the rabbit from the spit and began to eat, ignoring her completely.

When the rabbit was nothing but bones, Karla called to him:

"Let me see the Healer's sword."He slanted an impassive gaze at her over the firelight.

"It is tied to the saddle," he said, the first he had spoken to her all day.

"Bring it to me," the Witch commanded.Ashuram nodded, recognizing the confrontation that was about to occur.He raised one thin dark eyebrow incredulously.

"I am not your servant.If you want it, you know where it is."As it happened, the confrontation he was expecting did not occur.The Witch did not change expression at all, but Ashuram suddenly found himself standing up, moving under her will.He resisted the spell as well as he was able, his limbs moving jerkily as he was coerced into getting the sword from the saddle and bringing it to her.His mouth curved into a furious snarl, which only made Karla laugh.

"Unsheathe it," she told him, and he was forced to do so. The Elven sword jerked once in his hands as he unsheathed it and drove the point into the ground between them.The runes pulsed with a dim light, but nothing compared to the intensity they had glowed the night Veris had herself used the sword against the Witch.

Karla bent forward to study the runes, brows drawn together in concentration, eyes squinting to see every detail.Ashuram tested the spell holding him, but his limbs were still under her direction and he found he was frozen in a kneeling position, acting as a living sword stand.

"Very curious," the Witch murmured after a time."These runes…I have not seen this prayer in nearly a thousand years."She reached out a finger to trace the runes and stopped just short of actually touching the blade, the runes sparking dimly at the proximity of her touch.

"Turn the blade," Karla instructed him, and he did as he was made to so she could read the runes etched in on the other side.

"Well, Witch?" Ashuram grated after a moment, curiosity getting the better of him.

"It appears to be a supplication to Marfa," Karla said after a moment, looking thoughtful."Marfa is usually considered to be the Mother, the nurturer – hence Healers follower her.This sword, however, invokes the Warrior Marfa."

"Warrior?" Ashuram asked.He had never heard the Goddess referred to that way.

"Yes, the protective aspect of Marfa.The anger of a mother protecting her children.The desire to fight, to preserve, to defendThis sword is probably quite ancient."

"No wonder it reacted to you," Ashuram said in a rough voice, grinning without humor."It recognized the fox sniffing around the chicken coop."

The spell holding him was suddenly released, and as he'd been fighting against it, he suddenly found himself flung to the ground as effectively as if he'd been shoved.Ashuram picked himself up with a chuckle, brushing himself off and resheathing the sword.Even small victories were worthwhile.

Wondering what would happen, he buckled the Elven sword around his own hips, letting it rest in front of the much clumsier sword the blacksmith of Vesper had given him.He watched curiously, but aside from dimly flickering once, the sword did nothing.Shrugging to himself, he laid out his cloak on the ground far enough from the fire that a stray spark would not hit it, and sat down.Using his pack for a pillow, he lay back, folding his arms under his head and looking up at the sky.

The Healer's sword invoked Marfa.Interesting.He could not imagine Marfa – or her spirit, rather – approving of Karla very highly.In fact, their powers often seemed to be in exact opposition to each other.The Witch had still not touched the sword directly herself.Ashuram wondered what would happen if the sword came into contact with her.Something to keep in mind, he thought to himself.Anything he could use against the Witch at some point was valuable, and he felt slightly better as he let a light sleep steal over him.

*******

They reached the base of the mountains before a week had passed.

The Witch pulled the mare to a stop, gazing at the mountains appraisingly.Ashuram looked up at them, wondering if there was a pass through the short, squat range somewhere nearby.His question was promptly answered.

"We shall go around," the Witch decided, pointing the Healer's mare southwards, towards Kanon."There is no help for it, unless you are able to fly," she added, unruffled by the arched eyebrow that was Ashuram's only reply.He was quite eloquent without having to say a word; he had given up speaking to the Grey Witch unless she provoked him past his patience or coerced him into speech through a spell.

He tried to view it as a lesson in patience, but it was not much of a salve to the rage that simmered just beneath his thoughts and actions.He was used to being angry.It seemed it was an emotion he had known since his parents had been killed, long ago.He was equally used to stoicism, however, and kept his thoughts to himself.

Occasionally, when she needled him to pass the time, he found his hand straying to the Healer's sword.These days it did not often react to him as it had before; it hardly ever flinched away from his hand.If only he could use it on the Witch!He darted a thin glance towards the woman on horseback.He was in a quandary.His pride demanded he kill the damned Witch.While she had worn the thief's body, he would not have minded attempting to harm her.It was one to him whether the thief lived or died.

Now that she wore Veris' body, however, it was a different matter.He was unwilling to do something that might injure the Healer.If it came down to it, however, he supposed he would be able to sacrifice the Healer to kill the Witch; however, the thought made him quite uncomfortable, and he hoped it would not come to such a thing.He certainly owed her more than that.Besides which, he was not sure that killing the Healer would also kill the Witch.He had to somehow attack that damn circlet.With her awake, he deemed it impossible.Her power was far more than a match for his own mortal strength.Yet he had not once caught the Witch sleeping.It was as though she was beyond the need for sleep.Whenever he woke at dawn or during the night she was awake, staring into the fire with a distant gaze or watching him with that insufferable, sardonic smile.

It was nearly nightfall when they reached the border of Kanon.A small mining town was waiting for them, if it could be called a town.It was bigger than Vesper.Ashuram guessed it was no farmer village, this, but an outpost for Kanonite minors undoubtedly put to work by the Marmo army for the iron in the hills.The buildings were ramshackle, hastily constructed to be temporary refuges for men and women who would not stay long.Dim lanterns flickered at the entrances to a few of the buildings, releasing ugly, thick black smoke into the night.A couple of buildings were crowded and well-lit, music and people's voices spilling into the street.These, he guessed, were taverns or the equivalent.

"We shall stay at an inn tonight," Karla said."I am grown weary of sleeping on the ground."Ashuram, about to comment that she did not sleep, merely nodded instead and kept his tongue still.

They walked into the town, which was nearly empty in the twilight.There were a few people about, however, and these stared at Ashuram and the Witch with impassive, flat gazes that were neither curious nor friendly.All of the faces were hard and quite lean, speaking of the difficulty of their jobs and perhaps of the privation that had come after the war.

"Here," the Witch said, pulling the mare to an abrupt stop outside one of the better-lit establishments.The mare protested with a short squeal and a small angry buck, which affected Karla not at all. 

Through the grimy windows and over the top of the ill-fitting door, he could see this place was quite crowded.A dusty, clumsy sign proclaimed it the _Lonely Maiden Inn_.Ashuram snorted, and pushed in through the door behind the Witch.

It was much as he had expected.The lanterns lit the place, but cast shadows that reached deep into the corners of the inn, where tables full of miners sat drinking their ale or flirting with the tavern wenches.Of which, he saw, there were quite a few.

There was a lull in the noise level as the two strangers were noticed and sized up.They received the same flat, hard stares they had gotten from passersby outside.Ashuram felt his hand itching for the hilt of the sword against his hip.

"Help you?" The man behind the bar called out to them.

"We simply desire rooms for the night," Karla replied.The barman was shaking his head.

"Can't do," he replied."We're all full, save one."

"Cor love, _he_ can share _my_ bed tonight!" One of the wenches called bawdily, making a great show of looking Ashuram up and down.There was an outburst of laughter, and Ashuram felt himself relax just a bit.

"We shall take the one you do have, then," the Witch replied to the barman, speaking easily over the noise.

"There's only one bed," the man warned.The Witch gave Ashuram a sudden sideways glance and then she replied, with a hint of a smile around her lips,

"That shall suit.I also require stabling for my horse."The man nodded.

"I'll see to it, milady.Right this way."

As Ashuram made to follow them up the stairs, the wench that had spoken before made her way up to him, smiling.She winked, taking his arm.

"I meant it, you know," she said.Ashuram met her eyes, and she took a step back from whatever she saw there.Ashuram smiled – a chilly smile, but a smile nonetheless.He might have ordinarily been repulsed by such an offer, but something about the woman had put him at ease.

"Thank you for the offer," he replied politely."Perhaps another time."She let go with a shrug, not at all disappointed.

"Well, come on down then and share an ale with us," she said, a bit less persuasively."We don't get too many warriors through the mining town."

"Perhaps," Ashuram replied again, without really meaning it.He was tired, and was not sure he felt like dealing with even the friendly attention.

The room was small.The Witch had already claimed the bed when Ashuram came into the room.He merely spread his cloak on the wooden floor and laid down upon it.He dozed off in a matter of moments, body well trained.

He woke perhaps a few hours later with a burning need to relieve himself.He sat up in the darkness.The inn room was empty, save him – the bed was still made and quite unoccupied.Ashuram grunted in disgust, rising himself up from the hard cold floor and trying not to wince against the stiffness that was already creeping into his limbs.Not bothering with a lantern, he made his way down the inn stairs and across the now empty, darkened bar room.He made his way out of the inn and around the back.

When he was through, he climbed the stairs back up to the inn room.There was lantern light flickering under the door when he returned, and he opened the door to find the Witch had returned.She had obviously been to the baths, for the Healer's long, golden red hair was wet and stretched straight with the weight of the water in it.The pleasant smell of clean hair and skin filled the room. The Witch sat before the mirror, brushing the long hair out with slow, even strokes of the brush.It was such an innocent, human gesture that for a moment Ashuram was mesmerized by it, thinking of how often he had seen a woman brushing her hair out in front of a mirror.

The Witch saw him staring, and her reflection smiled at him craftily in the mirror.It was amazing how much the Witch could look so unlike the Healer despite the fact she wore the Healer's body.

The Witch placed the brush on the little mirror stand, and stood up.She turned to face Ashuram.In the flickering of the lamplight, he could see the Witch's robes were loose, falling partly open so that the light shone softly on the curve of her belly, making deep shadows where the long, slender throat met the recesses of her collar bone, against the swell of the sides of her breasts-

The Witch took a step towards Ashuram.

"It has been a long time, has it not," she commented in her strangely throaty, precise voice.Yes, Ashuram found himself thinking all at once, it had been a long time.He felt his breath quicken.

"You like this body," the Witch continued, raising her hands to the throat of her robe and slowly pulling it aside.Ashuram watched, completely taken by surprise.The curve of the Healer's breasts grew in definition.Another gentle tug and she would be completely revealed.

"After all, the Healer was beautiful, which is why I chose her body," the Witch added, making as though she would toss aside the robe.

The spell was broken.A feeling of disgust filled Ashuram, disgust at himself as much as at the Witch.For a brief moment he had almost forgotten whom he was dealing with.He flushed with newly rekindled anger.

"I'm going to sleep in the barn," he said in clipped, very precise words, and turned on his heel to march out of the room.

Karla's amused laughter followed him down the stairs.

***


	16. Synchronisities

Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any of 'em, except Veris! It's been a long time since I wrote anything on this story. I'm a little rusty, so bear with me. But I won't give up writing if you don't give up reading! ;)  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 16: Synchronisties  
  
  
  
She wanted to think it was a dream.  
  
It would have been easy to dismiss it as such; moments of cognizance came and went, dream-like, and the events flowing around her seem disjointed and unconnected to her. Time had little meaning to her, and the setting presented before her seemed to change constantly.  
  
She most often found herself looking at the world from horse back; how she came to find herself there, she had little idea. Woods and hills and towns melted into one incomprehensible stream over the bobbing of her mare's head, and horse hooves hitting the firm-packed earth in a deliberate gait sounded constantly in her ears. Ash's pale face came and went, wearing the same stony expression every time: jaws tight and eyes thin, as if he were reigning in his patience with extreme effort.  
  
Although there seemed to be little meaning to it, it could have been a dream she was having.  
  
And yet, there was some small part of her that stubbornly refused to believe that. There was the vague memory of something unpleasant, something she could not quite recall, that seemed to have begun the entire sequence. Try though she might, she could not bring it back.  
  
Every time she tried to concentrate on something, consciousness faded and she slipped back into the grip of whatever sleep held her, only to faintly and bemusedly come to herself to find everything had, once again, changed all around her.  
  
Occasionally, she seemed to - there was no other word for it - overhear thoughts that distinctly felt as though they were not her own. They echoed in her mind from a source she could not pinpoint, and expressed feelings that were alien to her.  
  
Those thoughts communicated age and consciousness that were startling to her.  
  
Time moves, she managed to catch this thought clearly once or twice, and I must hurry before the Black Knight finds a way to get in my way.  
  
Another time, faced with a crowded market full of what looked like common townsfolk, she remembered hearing somewhere in her own mind the scornful thought that:  
  
These small cogs in the mechanism are hardly even useful as tools. Like ants in the dirt, milling about with such small purpose.  
  
Had she always had thoughts like this? Somehow she didn't think so.  
  
Nothing made sense. Occasionally she thought to turn to Ash and ask him what was going on. Ask him why she could remember his name and not her own. Whenever she grew frustrated enough to start to do this, however, purpose slipped away from her and she found herself once more floating, inert, unable to make her mind and her body connect.  
  
Gradually, she began to realize she was not going to wake up from this dream. That something was standing between her and consciousness, keeping her from waking.  
  
Somewhere, deep within, a spark of rage came to faint life and began to burn with a single-minded intensity that slowly grew brighter and brighter.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Ashuram had lost track of the miles they had covered, but not the days. He kept careful count of those, tallying them with shallow hatch marks on a piece of leather cut from his sword belt. He did it every night before turning in, making the mark carefully with the end of the Elven sword. There were exactly thirty-eight pale, neat slashes on the dark leather.  
  
In Smithshire, he had bought some news boots. In Brandywine, they had stopped to have a Ferrier repair one of the mare's shoes. Past Iron Town, they had traveled through a pass in the mountains, stopping one night to dine with a band of loud-spoken gypsies who tried very hard to get him to gamble. The miles had gone slowly.  
  
And still no break in the Witch's vigilance. She did not sleep. He never witnessed her in any state except complete, alert composure.  
  
It really grated on him. Even Wagnard, possessed by a Goddess, had slept occasionally. Karla simply existed, driving them on towards Valis with a seeming tireless tenacity, making no secret of the fact she considered his need for sleep one of the many weaknesses of humans. She allowed them to stop every evening so he could sleep, although he suspected if she were truly in a hurry she could simply make his body move without his will behind it.  
  
She had already demonstrated this ability several times, much to his simmering, impotent frustration. Karla was in control, and she would have things the way she wanted them. This in no way endeared the Witch to him; he hated not feeling in control, and she knew it. She never failed to remind him that she had the upper hand at any opportunity, and took a rather petty pleasure from needling him.  
  
Occasionally, when he felt he could not stand it, or her magics went too far, the Elven sword would flicker to dull, faded green life, and she would back off slightly. It never came to green brilliance as it had with Veris, but it was enough to make the Witch uncomfortable. That was enough for him.  
  
The thirty-eight days had gone by almost silently. Ashuram had made the decision to talk to the Witch only when he absolutely had to, and he kept by it. Many days he said nothing at all.  
  
He merely watched, and waited, and found that his right hand nearly always rested on the hilt of the Elven sword.  
  
If there is one thing I have he thought to himself grimly, it's patience.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
The rainy season had come once more to Valis, bringing with it the last vestiges of cold mountain air before Spring would truly begin. Everything was damp and chilly, sending people inside and keeping them there. The city had turned grey and quiet, and would remain so until the sun came out again.  
  
Parn sighed, and turned his gaze from the cold view out his window and back to the warmth of his chambers. There was a fire burning brightly in the large fireplace, hissing and popping merrily. That, along with the torches burning along the wall, gave the room a cozy atmosphere if not necessarily a brightly-lit one.  
  
He rested his chin on his fist and considered the room. He was back in his old chambers in Valis, which the Princess had been thoughtful enough to keep ready in his absence. They had not changed, although it seemed like it had been another lifetime ago that he had sat in front of this very fireplace.  
  
He had been much younger then, in a fever of anticipation for the coming conflict with Marmo. It seemed like he had scarcely been old enough to grow a beard, although he knew better.  
  
He remembered watching Deedo sleep on the couch he now sat upon, stretched catlike by the fire. He remembered trying to sneak the white rose by her hands without her noticing and the recollection caused a rueful grin to pull at the corners of his mouth. Nothing got past Deedo, he had come to realize.  
  
Parn fingered the thin silver ring he wore on his left hand, fingers tracing the Elven runes woven there. He wished Deedo were here now, but she was gone - back to her homeland for a brief visit to see how the clans were faring, she had said. Brief, he knew, in Elven terms, meant he missed her far longer than she probably realized. Time moved differently for the Elven race, and he had not heard from her in weeks. She could be back in Valis tomorrow, or he may not see her for a year. That was how it went with Elves; they were creatures outside of time.  
  
Or so he kept telling himself.  
  
He was trying hard not to take her absence personally. The truth was, she had left after a complicated and frustrating argument between the both of them, without much explanation as to why she was going.  
  
Things had always been a little awkward between them, because of their differences - because he - like all humans - was so young, yet aged so quickly without the benefit of gaining experiences like Elves did. After the war had ended, however, and they had gone adventuring together, there had been a long period of wonderment between them, of quiet happiness that had felt as though it would never end. He stifled another sigh. He felt her absence keenly, especially since it had been so long since they had not been side by side  
  
Yet even Parn had to admit they had not been getting along as well lately. Since returning to Valis, Deedo had been prickly, tense and tightlipped. She had begun taking longer and longer walks in the gardens and deep forests around the castle, and had not appeared at the ball held in their honor to welcome them back.  
  
At first, Parn hadn't really noticed. Since the war was over, he'd fallen into a bit of a strange state. The hero's welcomes and the banquets in their honor were getting few and far between. He and his friends were a common sight now in Valis, and people no longer stopped them to thank them for their efforts in ending the war. Gradually a quiet depression had fallen over Parn and he found himself missing the excitement and glory of the days when he and his small group of adventurers had actually had something useful to do, instead of acting as decoration at important meetings and state dinners. There'd been a point where he had simply refused to appear in public life at the palace, because he couldn't stand to feel like part of the scenery.  
  
When he had finally realized something was bothering Deedo, she evaded his questions and seemed to withdraw into herself. They went for days without speaking, when only months earlier they had shared every thought between them. Even Parn could see that the breakdown in communication between them could surely lead no place good, and he eventually grew impatient with her unwillingness to talk to him about what was bothering her.  
  
She'd gone after he'd told her so. Parn bit his lip and rubbed his brow with a finger. He had to admit, looking back, he hadn't really chosen his words all that carefully or with any particular grace - he had little skill in that department. He wondered now if perhaps he'd said something that had cut her deeper than he could have realized. He certainly had been more than a little selfish lately.  
  
Thinking about it now, while she was not here to agree or disagree, was fruitless, he told himself at last. To distract himself, he picked up the rag lying near his boots, pulled King Fahn's sword from its sheath and began to polish it with neat, practiced strokes.  
  
The sword, under his hands, seemed to hum faintly and give off just the slightest pale glow. Yesterday when he had touched it, it had responded similarly. Parn frowned thoughtfully at it. The sword seemed restive, if such a thing were possible. After the battle on Marmo, it had seemed lifeless, as though it had fallen into a deep sleep. Now, however, he could sense life in it again. There was something different about the sword, as though once more it was quickening.  
  
The sword was magic, and Parn was the first to admit that such things were far above his understanding. If Deedo were here, perhaps she could explain. She was tuned to such things, being an Elf, and would understand the spells that brought the sword to life and made it sleep again  
  
He gave the blade another pensive swipe with the soft rag in his hands, looking at his reflection in the bright metal. Nothing new there, except a few scars and the shadow of a beard along his jaw. He reached a hand up and rubbed his chin, producing a scratchy sound and decided he ought to find a razor. He could probably borrow one from Slayn, he thought absently.  
  
His reflection looked older, he thought objectively. Not so much like a kid's face anymore. He halfway looked as though he were the kind of person fit to wear a sword like King Fahn's. If he let his beard grow in, he might wind up looking like King Kashue, he considered, but the hardness around the mercenary King's eyes were absent from his face.  
  
Parn looked down at his hands, wrapped around the hilt comfortably. They were brown and lean, smooth save for the puckered scar on his left hand that ran between his ring and middle finger all the way to his wrist. Parn ran a finger along the white, uneven skin, an uncharacteristic frown making a deep shadow between his brows.  
  
That was a souvenir from Lord Ashuram, that scar. It had taken months to heal properly. Parn did not have to look to know the other souvenir left over from that fateful fight - King Beld's sword - was hanging in its case against the far wall. The case stood out of sight of most of the room, half hidden in an alcove, but if he craned his neck he could probably see it. He refrained. He had purposely asked the Princess to keep the dark sword in a place close enough that he could keep an eye on it, yet in a place where he did not have to look at the damn thing all the time.  
  
The dark sword gave him the creeps. Although he had held it - even wielded it, in that panicked jump to save Deedo - the thing made his blood run cold. A slow shudder of horror crept over him every time he cast his eyes towards it. As soon as they had got to Valis, he had promptly put it in its sheath and stored it in the alcove, so he would no longer have to have it near him. He had felt a great sense of relief to be out of proximity to Soulcrusher. He could still remember the way the Black Knight had looked wielding it, crimson witch-light reflecting madly in his flat black eyes as he had advanced on Parn. Parn's left hand slowly made a white-knuckled fist.  
  
The sound of someone clearing their throat softly made Parn nearly jump. He looked over his shoulder to find Etoh standing in the doorway to his chambers, the firelight casting a grey shadow over his white cleric's robes. His face looked round and cheerful as ever, and under the Princess' determined attention, his full cheeks had acquired what seemed to be a permanently rosy glow as thought he were always slightly embarrassed.  
  
When he saw he had gotten Parn's attention, he gave a sweet grin.  
  
"Etoh," Parn acknowledged, unable to help smiling back. There was something infectious about his friend's unfailing good humor.  
  
"What are you doing in here, sitting in the dark?" Etoh inquired. "Not moping again?" He kept his wide smile so Parn would know he was joking.  
  
"Who's moping?" Parn grumbled, only mustering slight indignance. "I'm cleaning King Fahn's sword."  
  
Etoh rolled his eyes.  
  
"Can it get cleaner?" He obviously expected no answer, because he continued, "Why don't you come downstairs and join us at the table for some hot cider? One of King Jester's envoys has promised to tell some tales this evening."  
  
"I'll be down.after awhile," Parn said, looking around the room and suddenly unwilling to leave the comforting dimness for the brightly lit dining hall. Even here, in his chambers, he could hear voices carrying, lifted high in laughter and merriment. Valis had become a land of happiness since the war had ended.  
  
"Parn, you know, allowing yourself to laugh a little won't keep her away any longer," Etoh said lightly. Parn looked up at his friend quickly, but the smile on Etoh's face was the same. Parn resisted the urge to sigh glumly and rest his chin on his fist.  
  
"I know," he said. "And, I will be down. Just a bit later."  
  
Etoh advanced into the room, smile faltering and a concerned look coming into his washed-out blue eyes.  
  
"What's really the matter? Do you want to talk?"  
  
"What, you mean besides Deedo having left?" Parn asked dryly, which was unlike him. He shrugged. The brightness of the sword in his hands caught the corners of his vision and he looked down at it.  
  
"I've just been thinking about this thing," Parn said, gesturing to the sword. "It's been acting funny lately." Etoh immediately frowned.  
  
"What do you mean, 'acting funny?'"  
  
"Well, just look at it. It's glowing. And.it seems alive. I don't know, my friend; you know I don't understand magic. Maybe you can tell me what's going on." Etoh came over to study the sword, brows drawn.  
  
"I see what you mean," he said eventually. "Could it be that it's woken again?" Parn shrugged again.  
  
"At first I thought it was just wishful thinking on my part," he confessed to Etoh. Etoh, who knew Parn better than most and might understand the Knight's impatience with civilian life, nodded.  
  
"It would be nice to have a quest again," Parn continued, and even he could hear the longing in his own voice. "But I don't know why the sword would come to life again so soon after the war."  
  
"Well, the war may be finished, but that doesn't mean that Marmo was completely defeated." Etoh tapped a finger thoughtfully against the couch as he spoke. "I mean, the Witch has still not been found."  
  
The two of them shared a grim look, each thinking the same thing: that their friend, Woodchuck, had not been spotted since the Witch had taken control of him. That was a sobering reminder of things left unfinished.  
  
"You don't think she's back to her old tricks?" Parn asked dubiously. One of Etoh's eyebrows arched expressively.  
  
"Back? I hardly doubt she ever left," he replied. He frowned again thoughtfully and half turned to look at the alcove across the chamber.  
  
"What about that one?" He asked, turning again to look at Parn, gesturing to the dark sword. "Hs it been acting funny lately as well?" Parn's dark blue eyes looked troubled.  
  
"I don't often go near enough to find out," he said, rising, "but perhaps we ought to have a look."  
  
Parn strode over to Soulcrusher's glass case, and unlocked it. He pulled the glass open and reached for the dark sword. Just before taking it in his hands, he hesitated. Then, before he could let his unwillingness to touch it get the better of him, he took the sword in his hands, feeling the familiar oppressive weight of the thing. He could not help the grimace he made as he felt it once more in his hands.  
  
There was something that just felt wrong about this sword, something that made it feel as though it might twitch in his hands or otherwise rebel against him in some way. The sword felt sentient, and demanding - as though it hungered, and he were simply something in the way. It gave him gooseflesh.  
  
"Parn?" Etoh called.  
  
"Yes. Sorry. The blasted thing just creeps me out." He took the hilt and drew the sword quickly, as if to get it over with.  
  
His face was bathed in a harsh, yet relatively weak, purple light. Parn blinked in surprise, looking down at the sword in his hands. It definitely seemed to give off a feeling of life, and of some kind of power. It did not so much hum as seem to growl, low and deep just beyond the range of his hearing.  
  
"Oh Marfa," he found himself saying, looking down at it, "what does that mean?"  
  
"It means," Etoh said, sounding serious, "that I think we had better send word to Slayn. If anyone knows what's going on, he will." 


	17. Interludes

Disclaimer: Lodoss and any or all established characters thereof are not mine.just mine to toy with. Veris is of course my invention. Any similarity to people or places real or otherwise is mere coincidence.  
  
This story published on recycled net space.  
  
Chapter 17: Interludes  
  
Woodchuck scratched himself lazily under the arm and contemplated ordering another bottle of wine.  
  
He had already polished off most of the one standing open in front of him, and it was becoming apparent he was leaning on the bar in front of him more because he had to than because he really wanted to. He could feel a singularly stupid grin stretched permanently across his lips, but couldn't have wiped it off his face if he'd tried.  
  
All he could think was that he was *free*. Oh, Lady, it felt good! He reached over and poured more red wine into the rough wooden goblet he was drinking from, just for the sheer pleasure of knowing he could do so of his own free will. His body was his own again, and his thoughts had room to stretch and complete themselves without being shut down.  
  
If he didn't think it would have him kicked out, he would have shouted to the rooftops with his giddy excitement. He'd already tried singing, but the barmaid had threatened to turn him head over heels out the door if he continued. He slanted a glance over towards her, a large woman carrying trays full of beer mugs balanced perfectly on either hand. She looked, he thought, capable of kicking him back to Alania if she tried. So he kept himself quiet, with an effort, consoling himself with the fact that he'd nicked most of the change from her purse at one point earlier in the evening, and was now drinking red wine on the house, so to speak. At least his thieving abilities hadn't deteriorated completely while the Witch was using his body for a convenient host.  
  
Gods and Goddesses! He threw back his head and took another long gulp of wine, after which he promptly gave a satisfied belch. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand sloppily. How long had it been since he'd tasted wine - even the vinegar they served at places like this? The Witch did not partake, as she had said, of such foul human inventions. No wonder she was such an uptight.. Well.  
  
He looked around the room again, his ability to take in careful detail fading under the influence of his evening's efforts at drinking. He wondered how long he'd been in thrall to that purple monstrosity. He had no idea how much time had past since he'd had his body taken over and his thoughts shut out. Fashions didn't seem to have particularly changed, although that was hardly indicative. At least his own fashion had changed. If he ever caught sight of a purple cloak again..well, not even King Jester's dragons would be able to outpace him. He had developed a particular hatred of the color purple. And magic. And overbearing women.like the barmaid now coming purposefully towards him.  
  
Woodchuck finished the last of the red wine with a swig that more or less made it down his throat and held up the empty bottle to show he was ready for another. The barmaid came to stand beside him, heavy hands on wide hips.  
  
"Another," he requested. The woman raised her eyebrows.  
  
"Alright, let's see your gold, thin man," she requested. He handed her a couple of coins and she took them without looking twice. A moment later Woodchuck had another bottle of wine to himself, and a grin of smug satisfaction merely added to the happiness that already bent his long, weasel face.  
  
"You've certainly got money to burn, friend," a voice said over his left shoulder, and Woodchuck turned to look at the man sitting next to him  
  
The man had apparently been sitting next to him for some time, although the erstwhile thief hadn't particularly paid him any attention up until now.. Woodchuck was simply satisfied that the man was no one he'd met before, and felt himself relax slightly.  
  
He looked like a friendly-enough sort, one used to traveling. The man's windblown, blunt face seemed simple and common enough - a man who belonged where he was, in the peasant and merchant crowd that filled this bar to its dim corners. The smile did not leave Woodchuck's face - right now, this was exactly the company he wanted.  
  
"Blasphemy," he found himself saying easily to his neighbor. "I'd never do anything so wasteful. I'm just happy tonight. If you pull up a flagon, I'll be happy to share."  
  
"Don't mind if I do, at that," the man spoke, pushing his wooden cup closer so Woodchuck could fill it. Woodchuck managed to spill some mostly in the cup, stopped pouring when the man nodded, and slopped some into his own wooden mug. He was definitely beginning to feel a bit loose. It certainly wasn't like him to share - if his old guild master only knew! - but tonight was a special occasion, and he'd been known to do more (shudder) noble things at times.  
  
"My name's Geild," the man introduced himself, raising his cup in Woodchuck's direction in thanks.  
  
"Woodchuck," the thief replied, nodding.  
  
"So, Woodchuck, what have you got to be so happy about? Win some money gambling?" Woodchuck blinked, mildly surprised. In ordinary circumstances, he supposed, that guess would've probably been right on the mark.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Nothing like that, friend, although that would certainly be nice. I've got rotten luck gambling." He winced to think what had happened to the last set of loaded dice he'd owned. The remains had made fairly useful toothpicks.  
  
"Well then?"  
  
Woodchuck found his mouth open to reply, and stopped. He had almost been about to blurt out his woes, but had paused when he realized how ridiculous his story would sound. How could one say, with a straight face, "Well, it's like this, my man - this insane fanatical witch possessed me for only the Gods know how long, dressed me up in purple and black women's clothes and in general terrorized several people while using my body to do so?" Impossible. He shook his head, the words swallowed.  
  
"Let's just say," he offered when he saw Geild was still waiting for his answer, "that I've been a prisoner for a very *long* time, and I'm happy to be free."  
  
"Oh, you've been married, too, have you?" Geild said, making a face, and they both laughed at the age worn joke.  
  
"Nothing that serious," Woodchuck chuckled. Geild's face grew serious.  
  
"You aren't returning from out Marmo way, are you?" He inquired, giving the thief a measuring gaze. "Were you a prisoner of war?" Woodchuck considered this.  
  
"In a manner of speaking. I got caught on the south end of a very nasty north-bound spell." And *THAT* was putting it mildly.  
  
"Ahh," Geild said merely, as if Woodchuck had said it all, and he seemed to look at the thief in a new light. "Welcome back from the dark side, then. You heading to Valis?" Woodchuck shook his head.  
  
"Haven't decided yet. Guess I'll see when I get there." He grinned, but it was halfhearted. He had been trying not to think about Valis. It seemed to him the name had been prominent in the Witch's mind for a long time..Valis. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember what she wanted with Valis.  
  
"They say Parn and his company are back in Valis now," the man continued, mere gossip.  
  
"Oh?" Woodchuck found himself asking in spite of himself. He had been trying particularly to avoid thinking about that particular group of people, but he found himself interested despite his intention not to be.  
  
"Yes. These days Parn is acting as the Princess' bodyguard and they say he has become one of King Kashue's right-hand men."  
  
"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, I'm sure," Woodchuck said, failing to sound disinterested. Geild nodded.  
  
"No kidding. Good kid, from what I hear. Not too sure about that Elf woman that's always at his side, though."  
  
"I hear ya there," Woodchuck muttered, thinking about how Deedo, "that Elf woman," had completely snubbed any and all of his advances, friendly or otherwise. Being haughty was one thing, but there was nothing like an Elven snob - it seemed like they wrote the book on subtle, scathing contempt.  
  
"Still, she seems alright." Woodchuck merely grunted. He felt distracted by vague memories of Valis. something about Valis. Something the Witch wanted, he felt sure, had been in Valis. Talking about it with Geild gave him an uneasy feeling, as though there was something he needed to remember.  
  
"I prefer my women human," Woodchuck added when he realized the conversation had paused.  
  
"I'll drink to that, "Geild agreed, washing back the last of his wine. Woodchuck oblidged and poured him another tankard full. He discovered that his aim was off slightly and much of the wine splashed onto the bar.  
  
"Easy there," Geild laughed.  
  
"No worries," Woodchuck agreed. It had been a long time since he'd drunk and he was appalled to find that so little wine was having such a large effect on him.  
  
"You know," he found himself saying to Geild, finishing off his own cup in defiance of his already mostly drunken state, "I've met Parn and the Elf, Deedo."  
  
"Oh?" Geild said, looking interested but slightly dubious.  
  
"Uh huh," Woodchuck said, and proceeded to tell Geild how he had met them all when they were held in Alania. He, of course, left out that he had been in prison for cheating at gambling.  
  
Woodchuck's thoughts wandered while he was talking, although Geild continued to nod and look interested, which reassured the thief and he continued with his rambling story. Unbidden, however, he found himself remembering the rainy night he had stood with them - Parn, Deedolito, Slayn, Etoh and Ghim - outside the great hall on the way to find the old mage Warto.  
  
That memory seemed as though it had happened a thousand years ago. How little he had felt he owed them then. He wanted to feel the same way now, but he knew better. He didn't want to owe them anything, although there was something bothering him about Valis. something that must involve them.  
  
"That makes a good story, any way," Geild said, and Woodchuck came back to himself with a start. It was obvious the man didn't believe him. He felt drunken indignance and opened his mouth to defend himself.  
  
"I always wondered if it was true that King Fahn gave the kid his sword," Geild said musingly before Woodchuck could say anything.  
  
"Eh?" Woodchuck replied through his drunken haze. "What'dja just say?" Geild repeated himself, and went on to say something else, but Woodchuck didn't hear him.  
  
Something had clicked. Something about..a sword. Parn. Valis. Karla. A sick feeling of dread opened up in Woodchuck's gut, siphoning off the drunken haze that surrounded him and hitting him with cold, intense sobriety.  
  
"Oh, Hell," he said, and found that he had stood up, knocking his bar stool over in the process. "The sword."  
  
Geild was blinking mildly at Woodchuck, looking confused. Woodchuck reached over to shake the man's hand firmly.  
  
"Thank you, my friend," he said, and was surprised to find he meant it. As much as he wanted to be independent, he still owed the damn kid a warning that the Witch was on the move.  
  
"You helped me remember-" Woodchuck continued, and was cut short by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was spun around and discovered he was staring into the barmaid's round, angry face. Her cheeks were flushed and she did not look happy.  
  
"Maybe you can help *me* remember," she said, taking him by the collar and looking disgusted as though he were a puppy that had just piddled on the floor, "where I placed the ten gold pieces I had in my pocket just a little while ago. Something tells me you'll know."  
  
Woodchuck opened his mouth and paused, considering how best to get himself out of the situation.  
  
"Actually, I have no idea what you're yawping about." Playing dumb was always, as a general rule, his first course of action. He remembered too late that it helped to be polite, too.  
  
"Mmhmm," the woman replied, looking completely nonplused. "Try again."  
  
"If I was reaching for your apron, it wouldn't be money I was going for," Woodchuck said slyly, weasel grin breaking on his face once more. If playing dumb didn't work, sometimes flattery did.  
  
The woman's face went beet red. Woodchuck yelped as she grabbed him by the ear.  
  
"Alright, you thin thief," she said, dragging him along more or less complacently behind her, "That's enough out of your crooked mouth. We don't need your kind around here." And before he realized what was going on, Woodchuck had been efficiently kicked out, the tavern door slammed in his face; dire threats about what would happen to his various meager body parts should he show his face again ringing in his ears. Woodchuck blinked at the closed door for a moment, and then grinned. Guess it was time to be on his way again.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She was determined to wake up, and remember what was going on. She held her determination fiercely, fueling it with anger and frustration, trying to break through the surface of consciousness.  
  
She had found a spot that gave when she pushed, a place that seemed to be breaking down, and she worked at it with all her attention, as if she were grinding away at stone, wearing it down little by little. Every once in while she could hear thoughts that were neither her own nor directed at her float through her mind, but she paid them little attention.  
  
Then, suddenly and abruptly, she was through. *I am Veris.* She found herself suddenly back in her own body, so surprised that she nearly fell off the horse she was riding. She blinked her eyes open, trying to shake off the languor that held her, and found herself riding in the middle of a forest, the sky grey and cold above her. The clouds above looked close and snow-heavy.  
  
Beside her she could see Ash walking, dark head bobbing by the horse's shoulder. He looked nowhere but straight ahead, and his facial expression looked bleak.  
  
*Where are we?*, she wanted to ask. *How long has it been? What the hell is going on?* But wondering these questions was as far as she got before she was suddenly shoved back by who she now knew was the Witch. Pain seemed to blossom all around her, not of the body but an excruciating mental pain that Veris had little defense against.  
  
*Enough of you*, the Witch's voice crashed deafeningly over her, and Veris had no choice but to subside. Still, even as she was shut off purposefully from her own body, she could not help feeling a small sense of triumph. She had won through, even if it was for only a breath. Even if now she was suffering for it. If she could have used her mouth to cry out, she would have. Consciousness became spotty again, and she felt herself fading.  
  
*I must be more tired than I suspected,* Veris heard the thought echo around her faintly, as from far off. *Too many things to keep track of.Elven spell resistance..*  
  
And that was all she heard for a long time.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Ashuram was cold, wet, and angry. At least these were familiar feelings. He took to anger like a cat takes to sunshine, basking in it, drawing warmth and energy from it. He did so now, head down into the wind, cloak pulled up against the stinging snow blowing across his face. He walked with his hand on the mare's shoulder, and the foul-tempered beast, too distracted with finding her footing, did not even attempt to try and bite him.  
  
They had almost made it through the mountain pass into Valis before the storm had begun. Ashuram had seen it coming, but did not think it would bring snow this close to Spring. First a cold, icy wind had blown up, scouring down the mountains like a rough hand sweeping away at dust. The clouds had slowly gathered above, dark, thick grey ones that had promised cold misery to come. Suddenly, tiny white flakes had filled the air, so fine and windblown that they hardly seemed to be falling at all but rather merely swirling in the air all around them.  
  
The storm was not so bad yet, but Ashuram had the feeling it was going to get worse. He was not dressed for such weather, and the cold air cut through his damp cloak like a knife. The Witch had said nothing yet, her head bowed against the snow, apparently lost in thought.  
  
"We must find shelter," Ashuram raised his voice over the wind, his voice rusty with disuse.  
  
He saw the half-elf's head nod.  
  
"There is a town over the next ridge," the Witch said. "We will stay there until the storm passes over." He nodded, and fell silent again.  
  
By the time they reached the town, the snow was falling steadily, beginning to gather on the ground and on his head and shoulders before he could brush it off. The wind was bitter and cruel, and had no warmth of Spring to it at all. This was a mountain storm; Ashuram knew the weather in the mountains could be unpredictable, but a blizzard so late in the season seemed quite uncommon to him.  
  
There was no inn in the town, but there was a tavern that had a stable for the mare. As they went in to the tavern, the wind slammed the door shut behind them, whining through the cracks in the walls like a spirit moaning. Snow swirled against the windows like a million tiny white moths around a lantern.  
  
"Haven't seen a Spring blizzard this bad in eighty years," a voice said. 


	18. Lapse

Disclaimer: No animals were hurt in the making of this chapter. Lodoss is not mine, nor are it's characters. Just Veris and various assorted NPCs. (^-^)  
  
  
  
Chapter 18: Lapse  
  
  
  
"Yes," the voice continued, a bit shakily, "the last time there was a storm so late in the season was when Shooting Star returned the first time."  
  
The inside of the tavern was dim, lit only by a merrily blazing fire from within a deep, ancient fireplace. A hunched figure walked forward towards them out of the dimness, and Ashuram felt himself relax slightly, hand moving away from the swords hanging at his hip.  
  
It was an old man, thin and fragile looking, white beard curling gently about his chin. Age had made his eyelids droop so that his eyes looked thin and squinting, as though he were permanently smiling. He wore sturdy mountain clothes, with a thick leather belt in which he had tucked his hands.  
  
"Who are you, old man?" the Witch asked. Her voice sounded thin and stifled inside, just barely audible over the plaintively whistling wind.  
  
"That's my father-in-law," a tiny woman said, coming out of what Ashuram guessed was the kitchen. She wore a spotless apron and a knit cap on her head. She truly had to be one of the shortest - human- women that Ashuram had ever seen. He doubted she reached much taller than his lowest rib. She had a broad, smiling face that reflected the firelight comfortably.  
  
"You'll have to forgive him; we don't get many visitors, especially not from out of town."  
  
"There have been more since Valis won the war," the old man said mildly, sounding not at all offended by the woman's words.  
  
"That still means only one or two a month, Da," the woman replied, and smiled at Ashuram as if asking for his patience.  
  
"True." The old man subsided, whuffling in a slightly disgruntled fashion into the soft curls of his beard.  
  
"Anyway, have you traveled far?" The woman asked them, wiping her hands on her apron as if to signify she was ready to do business. The Witch did not even give a sign that she had heard the woman's words, so Ashuram answered her:  
  
"Far enough." She nodded.  
  
"It's lucky you found us when you did. It's fixing to blow up a proper mountain storm outside, and Gatetown is the only town from here until you reach Valis. That would certainly be a long walk in this weather." Ashuram made an affirmative gesture, not interested in making small talk. There was a pause.  
  
"You must be thirsty," the woman continued. "I'll get you something warm to drink." She addressed her words to the Witch, who looked as though she were only barely listening.  
  
"Mulled wine for me please," Karla said after a moment. The woman nodded again.  
  
"And for your gentleman?" There was a sudden strained silence, in which Ashuram's hand found the hilt of his sword. It was broken by a laugh spilling from Karla's throat, and the hated sound filled Ashuram's ears and grated against his nerves. He clenched his jaw.  
  
"For him, too," the Witch replied, glancing maliciously over at the Black Knight.  
  
"I am not her gentleman," Ashuram growled in bitten, short syllables.  
  
"Two mulled wines," the woman nodded, looking completely nonplused by either of her visitors. Ashuram had the realization that in Gatetown, she had probably seen just about everything.  
  
"Da, why don't you show them to a seat. I'll be right back."  
  
"Over here," the old man said, gesturing to a table beside the fireplace. "The warmest spot in the house." Karla went to go sit down, but Ashuram walked over to the fireplace. He held his hands out to the blazing fire, soaking up the heat. The cold had gone completely through his damp cloak to equally damp skin, and he had the chills.  
  
The old man, upon seeing them seated, trudged off. He seemed to realize he would find little conversation at their table. A silence fell over the tavern, broken by the crackling of the fire and the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. Outside it grew darker as the storm came through.  
  
"Parn is in Valis," the Witch said suddenly. "With the sword. I know for sure now." Her voice was triumphant, but the half-elven face she spoke with looked drawn and tired. There were dark half-moons under the hazy green eyes.  
  
Ashuram, as was his habit, said nothing, despite his interest.  
  
"Slayn and the brainless doll that is Neese's daughter also return to Valis." The Witch spoke as if she were watching something far away, and her voice was thin as if it came from a distance. Ashuram held his peace.  
  
The Witch suddenly looked at him straight on, half-lidded eyes trained directly on his.  
  
"I grow weary of your reticence," she said, and it was the first time he had ever heard her sound less than coolly calm. "You will speak when spoken to." Ashuram felt his mouth open forcibly.  
  
"I..am..listening," Ashuram said, each word a struggle, forced out by a will that was not his own. *I am waiting. One day you will make a mistake, old hag.*  
  
"Good. The good cleric Etoh is also in Valis, as is King Kashue. Slayn and Leylia will be there within the moon, and I can only assume the weasel thief will also make his way there. Why, it is a regular reunion of heroes."  
  
"All.I.care..for.is.the.sword." Ashuram grated out unwillingly. One of the Witch's eyebrows raised dubiously.  
  
"Really? Is that all?" She chuckled nastily. "I thought it was revenge you were after. The match is not finished between you and the free Knight Parn."  
  
"Who.are.you.to..judge?" Another cruel sound of amusement.  
  
"One far more powerful than you, Black Knight. As you must realize by now." They fell silent as the door to the kitchen opened again and the woman brought out a tray with their mulled wine. She disappeared back into the kitchen soon after with the promise of a warm dinner.  
  
Ashuram sipped the mulled wine. He found it curious that the Witch had ordered wine; as far as he knew, she had never eaten or drank anything before. At least, he had never seen her do it - which made him wonder how she was keeping Veris' body alive. But now the Witch sipped gently at the wine, seeming to savor the taste, the steam from the flagon gently swirling in her face.  
  
"Why..do you enjoy.needling me?" Ashuram asked. The Witch laughed.  
  
"Because it is so easy," she replied. "As I must travel as humans do, I will try to make it enjoyable for myself."  
  
"I make.a.very.bad.enemy," he replied because he had to. The Witch chuckled, loud and mirthfully.  
  
"And very bad threats as well. Empty words. Drink your wine and return to your sullen silence." Ashuram felt the spell leave him.  
  
The anger that raged in him was different now. This was cold, calculating anger - the kind he enjoyed, because he could use it to his best advantage. It was much different than the sudden blinding rage he had felt when Karla had told him she had mimicked Pirotess for her own whims. He sipped his wine quite calmly, and kept silent as she had bid.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
There were no rooms in the tavern. They had been given the loft of the barn to sleep in, which was spread thick with hay, and several thick blankets to ward off the cold. No candles were allowed in the barn for obvious reasons, and the Witch had lit the loft with eerie, floating globes of soft light that seemed to hover in the corners and bob slightly up and down.  
  
Outside, the wind blew particles of snow against the roof hard enough that it sounded like sand blowing. Below them came the sound of horses, snorting softly and stamping, or shifting their weight in their sleep.  
  
At least, Ashuram thought, the hay looked clean and not too old and dusty. He made a pallet for himself by sweeping the hay into a soft pile, with the economical gestures of one who has done such a thing before. He lay a blanket over the hay to keep a barrier between his soft skin and the stiff grass ends, and lay down. The other blanket he pulled on top of himself. He was secure in the knowledge he would be warm that night; if he grew cold, he could simply pile more hay on top of himself. He knew from experience that hay made excellent insulation.  
  
The Witch also seemed to have decided to lay down, for she spread a blanket over the hay and sat upon it, seeming to sink down on the blanket as though the string holding her upright had been cut. Ashuram watched her curiously. This was odd behavior from the Witch. He had never seen her display any weariness before, and he wondered if she realized how baldly it showed now to him. A feeling of anticipation rose in his gut, and he set it aside hastily. He would, as he was quite good at doing, watch and wait. Perhaps tonight would be the night he put and end to her interference.  
  
Ashuram settled himself under the blankets, using his pack as a pillow and adjusting his swords so they didn't dig into him when he shifted but were in easy reach. He closed his eyes and, utilizing a trick he had learned when still a page, fell into a light, dozing sleep that he could shed easily if he had to.  
  
He slept.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Veris waited. The Witch was very tired, and Veris knew another chance to return to her own body might come again soon. She knew the way of it now, how to wait, when and where to push. It was only a matter of time.  
  
Something was distracting the Witch. It seemed her powers were spread thin over many long distances, and Veris knew with a certainty that reached down to a cellular level that the Witch was exhausting herself. Whatever she was keeping an eye on was draining her. Veris also knew, with the same cellular certainty that came from having to share a body with her, that the Witch was very, very old. She no longer thought like a human, if she had ever been one in the first place. She had an ego bigger than the island of Lodoss. Veris wondered, vaguely, if the Witch even realized herself how exhausted she was becoming. Perhaps her pride would not let her see it. Sometimes that happened to some of Veris' patients - they would wear themselves out without realizing it, and suddenly come down with a horrible cold because their defenses were exhausted.  
  
Veris could not help but wonder what it was Karla was after. What did she have in mind for Ashuram? Veris' own part in the Witch's plot had already come abundantly clear. The indignance Veris felt at being used as a *host* simply added to her fiercely burning determination to rid herself of the Witch. She had the feeling that if only she tried hard enough, she could somehow reject Karla's magic. The only trick, however, was in how to do it. She had yet to figure that out, so she waited, keeping her thoughts to herself.  
  
Gradually, she felt the Witch's thoughts begin to slow. Veris' body, in reaction, slowed down - her heart rate grew slow, and her breathing more even and deep. Veris had the inclination to think calming, soothing thoughts to ease the Witch into slumber, but decided Karla was too smart for that and would catch on. She waited, hardly daring to hope.  
  
At last, Veris felt Karla's hold slip. The spells restraining Veris loosened, and she pushed through into consciousness.  
  
Veris came back to her body more gently this time, with far less confusion. She came to herself, and slowly opened her eyes.  
  
If she had breath to scream, she would have. Poised above her, Elven sword in his hands, green light from the naked blade reflecting in his pale, angular face, crouched Ashuram. There was a look of determination in the set of his thin lips, and his eyes were flat. He had curled both hands around the hilt and the tip of the sword was pointing at her heart. Veris had no doubts as to his intentions.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Ashuram woke when the witch lights went out. He lay still, blinking in the darkness, breathing quietly. Waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark, he listened.  
  
He could not hear anything over the storm. It took a long time for his eyes to get used to the darkness of the loft. There were no stars or moon. Even when he could see dimly, the Witch was simply a dark shape lying flat on the hay several paces away.  
  
Ashuram got to his feet stealthily. There was nothing for it but to look. If he failed at this chance, he was not sure when there would be another, but he had to try. His pride demanded it.  
  
Silently, he unsheathed the Elven sword. For a moment he frowned at it, looking at it in the darkness. It seemed to glow faintly, so that he could see the runes stand out against the metal. Gripping the hilt tightly, he crept forward over the hay, one silent footstep after another.  
  
It seemed to take forever, but at last he was standing over the Witch. As he had suspected, her eyes were closed, her breaths deep and even. The Witch was asleep.  
  
For just a second, Ashuram hesitated, looking down at the half- elven face. *Sorry, Healer Veris.* With a real moment of regret, he raised the sword to plunge it into her heart should he have to, and reached for the circlet.  
  
At that moment, two things happened at once. Suddenly, the Elven sword blazed to life, dazzling him with its green intensity.  
  
As his eyes were blinded by the sudden light, he looked down to find the Witch's eyes were wide open, looking up at him through the green glare, the whites highly visible and wide around the irises.  
  
All he could think was *hell, hell! It's over. That was my chance.*  
  
"Ash?" It was a breath so soft he thought he had imagined it at first. He frowned. That did not sound like the Witch.  
  
Her hand came up to touch his, to stop the descent of the sword.  
  
"Healer Veris?" He leaned forward to look down at her. There was no purple haze over her wide eyes, and the circlet looked dead.  
  
"Yes, it's I," she said, and her voice was so soft and far away, it was as if she were speaking to him from the end of a long passageway. He could barely hear her.  
  
"I can't.hold.very long," she continued quickly, breathily. "Take.circlet..Break it. Watch for chance..not tonight. I know how to .do it now."  
  
"Not tonight?" Ashuram snarled. "If not tonight, when?"  
  
"Soon. watch. I have.an idea.keep Elven sword close by." Her eyelashes fluttered. "She comes..hurry..can't hold it. quick!" Ashuram nodded, somehow realizing what she meant. He sheathed the Elven sword and made his way back to his pallet with the speed he could muster, settling himself and calming his breathing as best he was able.  
  
Behind his closed eyelids, he sensed when the witch lights came back on faintly, illuminating the loft. He heard the Witch stir, but she said nothing and all remained quiet.  
  
Ashuram concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly, trying to calm the racing of his heart. For some reason, he knew now, he trusted the Healer. If she had said she had a plan, he thought it might work. He would continue to watch, and wait.for just a bit longer. 


	19. Slowly Waking Up

Disclaimer: More blatant name dropping upcoming! And as usual, I don't own any of Lodoss or it's characters.  
  
No leaf or bark fairies were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Completely 100% spirit-free.  
  
Chapter 19: Slowly Waking Up  
  
Ashuram opened his eyes sweetly. For a moment he was not sure where he was, and lie on his back blinking upwards for several long seconds. He was surrounded by muffled wan light and sound, soft and reassuring as the warmth of the bed he lay in. For the first time in a long time, he had not come awake with a start, hand on his sword. He had slept deeply, and if had dreamt he could not remember it.  
  
He remembered where he was little by little, looking up at the time-strained grey wood of the barn ceiling above him. Dust motes floated lazily through the dim light that filtered in weakly. The smell of hay that filled his nose was pleasant, and underneath that, the warm, sweet scent of the horses. He could hear them below him, shifting their weight, getting restless as the morning waxed. Soon they would be whickering for their breakfast, he thought.  
  
He was content to lay there for a while, folding his arms beneath his head and indulging in a rare moment of relaxation. There was something familiar about waking in a barn. Still, not quite fitting accommodation for the Black Knight, although he had to admit it was a step up from the hard earth he had been sleeping on in the past month.  
  
He had stopped wondering how it was the once-mighty general of Marmo could wind up in such places as a barn on the Valisian border, counting his luck that it wasn't a hard, root-broken patch of earth on the forest floor.  
  
Perhaps, he reflected, it was time he did so.  
  
He felt different this morning.  
  
It was as if he had been moving through a reverie the past month and was only now coming back to his senses. He rubbed the side of his face meditatively, brushing thick strands of sleep-ruffled hair off of his forehead. What had he been doing? When he stopped to think, he could remember nothing specifically about the last month. Days and days of travel..they all blurred into one long stretch that meant little to him now.  
  
He felt as though he were only now able to take a breath and clear his head. What was the meaning of this? He stopped rubbing his face and slanted a glance over at the Witch, who was still lying silently in the hay. She looked asleep, but it was hard to tell for sure.  
  
Impossible. the thought came to him at once and he could not dismiss it. That the Witch had something to do with his estranged state, he found he had no doubt. She was headed for Valis with a purpose that would stop at nothing, and he was part of that purpose. Had she somehow kept him.passive as they came ever closer to the Valisian border?  
  
He thought for a moment. The last time he remembered actually being himself and in complete control was during the orc raid on Vesper. The night before the Witch had come. After that.  
  
Ashuram nodded to himself. If he were the Witch, he would have done the same thing. Remove the odds working against her, and the likelihood that her plan, whatever that was, would come to fruition increased. As much as he resented the Witch, he respected her cunning, the same way a tanuki( might recognize the tricks of a fox while wanting nothing more than to outclass it.  
  
If she was capable of putting a geas on him, then there was no doubt she could also quiet his thoughts, make him sleepy and compliant to her suggestions.  
  
*I hate magic.* he thought, certainly not for the first time, although he was objective enough to add as an afterthought, *.that I can't control.*  
  
Yet why was it, he wondered, that now he was able to stop and realize what was going on? What had happened that she was allowing him to get his bearings - surely she knew that he would in no wise be receptive to her commands unless he was bespelled? *Of course she does. This is merely part of her schemes. If it would suit her purpose for me to come to my senses..* Ashuram carried out a brief mental dialog with himself, which continued:  
  
*Wait. She may be clever, but is she *that* clever? Perhaps she does not realize what has happened.* Ashuram slanted another glance over at the still form of the Witch. She was as powerful as a Goddess, but the important thing was, she wasn't one. Even she could not be perfect.  
  
Was she still asleep? He could see Veris' body moving slightly up and down as she breathed. Karla asleep.  
  
*Rare, odd..exploitable,* he thought. *Something isn't quite right here.*  
  
He intended to make the most of it. As yet, however, he was not exactly sure how he could best do so. He nodded to himself slightly again, coming to a decision. Let her think, for the meantime, that nothing had happened. Let her think he was still.passive. Let her think what she would, the end would still be the same.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"The pass you want is called Rimmer's Gap," the little tavern mistress told Ashuram, pointing to the faded map she had pulled out with a kitchen-stained finger. He had already learned her name that morning but promptly forgotten it again; his brain was like that. Information he deemed important he kept and hoarded as jealously as a dragon with its treasure, but useless information left nary an imprint on his memory.  
  
"It's about half a day's walk in normal weather, but in this snow." the woman cast a doubtful eye outside. Upon emerging from the barn, Ashuram had found the world covered in a layer of snow. Not deep snow, but cold and hard enough that he wished fleetingly for a decent pair of boots.  
  
"Anyway, you'll find it by following the Grimmrflod," the woman told them, pointing northwest out the window. "If you come to a fork in the river, you'll know you've gone too far."  
  
"They'll want to be careful," the old man felt obliged to add, stroking his beard contemplatively. The old man caught Ashuram's eye.  
  
"That's a steep trail there through Rimmer's Gap. Merchants think twice about using it; some of its narrow enough that even the mountain burrows balk."  
  
Ashuram almost snorted in derision. Mountain burrows indeed. Their legendary brave surefootedness was more of an old wive's tale than actuality. No, give him a light-footed Alanian horse any day. He supposed the healer's mare, whose name he realized suddenly, he had not ever learned (he would have remembered forgetting it), would have to do.  
  
"You'll have to cross the Grimmrflod, too," the woman continued. "It's a treacherous stretch of water, so it's best to find a reliable ferryman. I can recommend-"  
  
"We will chance it," Ashuram said.  
  
"As you will, man, but the Grimmr's got some strange currents," the woman cautioned. "Moody river. I know a ferryman at Moss Bend-"  
  
"If the Pass is so perilous, it's a wonder anyone makes it through alive," Ashuram smoothly cut in, voice cool. The woman colored angrily, as she realized he was having none of it.  
  
This sort of thing was common in mountains like this, where the villages were few and far between. This tavern had probably made a deal with a ferryman on the other side of the Pass to send customers his way for a percent of the profit. Nothing like honest merchants. Ashuram could not help grinning maliciously.  
  
"Well," the woman said after a pause, "we would be happy to at least sell you some sturdy travel clothes." She eyed Ashuram's cloak with a dubious eye.  
  
Ashuram shook his head, even though he was in desperate need of some warm clothing.  
  
"Not necessary."  
  
"Well, in any case let me just show them to you." The woman disappeared once more, up stairs that squeaked under her feet.  
  
Some time later, Ashuram was dressed warmly in a thick, long woolen coat. Having bargained with the few funds he had gathered from the Healer's house before leaving Vesper, he had driven the price down to less than a gold piece. He had also bought a blanket, and even the Witch had purchased a warm shawl (black, of course) that was now wrapped around the Healer's thin, grey-clad shoulders.  
  
When they left, the woman and the old man waved them on their way with rather embittered expressions on their faces, having undoubtedly made less on their wares than they were used to doing.  
  
The Witch was quiet, and remained so as they trudged out of the tavern yard. She rode in the saddle as tall as dignified as ever, however, the expression on the Healer's small face inscrutable and distant. It was left to Ashuram to lead the horse, and he did so, elbowing the mare without remorse when her muzzle got too close. They had learned by now to give each other space, but the mare had no fear of him. It was a shame, he thought, that the horse was so humble looking, for she had the proper temperament for a war horse - completely unflappable.  
  
It was cold. The day was quiet, save for the high, thin whine of the wind that blew powdery snow up into their faces. Ashuram pulled his new coat closed against it, tramping through snow that was crisp and clean underfoot. The road was a white, sunken depression, and here and there the brown of the hard pack underneath showed through in faint patches.  
  
The sun looked like a wan, sallow flat disc overhead in a sky the color of winter. There were no birds singing, and the trees with their new growth just barely marking a green fuzz along the branches looked poor and threadbare under the thin coat of snow. The mare, when she blew out, made puffs of steam at her nostrils, looking like some strange dragonlet.  
  
"This weather, of course," Karla said suddenly and as casually as if she were simply making conversation, "is unnatural." Her voice seemed unusually loud and precise in the snow-muffled quiet all around them.  
  
"Is it?" The Witch nodded once, the small silver hoops hung from the half-Elf"s ears jangling faintly.  
  
"Indeed. Someone, or something, has stopped the Spring. Perhaps they think to slow me down."  
  
He felt a brief chill go through him that had little to do with the cold winter chill.  
  
"Return the weather to normal, then," Ashuram said, and whether he meant it intentionally or not, it sounded imperial, like an order. The Witch simply laughed.  
  
"What, and let your new coat go to waste?" She murmured with a faint smirk, and fell silent again.  
  
Late in the afternoon, they came in sight of the Grimmrflod. Ashuram had been hearing it roar in the distance for some time, and then suddenly as they rounded a bend in the trail, there it was before them. Against the snowy banks, the river looked dark and cold, and the air blowing up to them from it had a damp, bitter bite. The river was wide and the current deep and fast, water purling violently around large, slick black rocks that emerged from the water like the heads of some strange amphibious beasts. The roar of the water as they came upon it was nearly deafening.  
  
Here the path become narrow and steep, and suddenly Ashuram could see why Rimmer's Pass had the reputation it did. On their left, the mountain face rose up sheer and rough, its slick, snow-coated surface offering little handhold or even much of an incline to lean against. On their right, the trail fell away sharply to the Grimmr below, waiting like a loud, angry maw.  
  
Ashuram looked up at the sky, dark and close and hung with heavy clouds, and hoped that whoever was stopping the Spring would also see fit to stop the snow from falling again.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"Very interesting indeed," the thin man murmured, bending close to peer at the Demon sword and the Conqueror's sword side by side, both giving off slightly pulsating auras that did not increase nor diminish when they were separated. The man's long, fine hands fluttered like birds above the swords as if he wanted to touch them, but did not alight. He knelt in the plush carpet, the sleeves of his simple brown robe pushed up to the elbows, looking rather stork-like and awkward even on his knees.  
  
"And you say the swords have been glowing like this only recently?" The man turned now to look up at Parn, large grey eyes solemn in his narrow face  
  
Parn nodded.  
  
"Yes," he told his bookish, scholarly friend, who pushed a thatch of straw-colored hair off of a rather high forehead. Even Slayn's hair was thin, Parn thought, although he had to conclude his friend had put on a little weight, thanks to what could only be Leylia and her mother's care. The wizard no longer had deep sunken pockets under his cheekbones, and his wrists no longer looked so fragile and bird-like. He actually, Parn saw, had wiry muscles built up in his thin arms, and there was breadth to his shoulders that lent him a dignified intellectualism.  
  
Parn shot a glance to the tall, grave girl standing behind Slayn, dressed in grey Healer's robes. Her long hair fell in a thick wave of curls down her back where she had pulled it up away from her face. How different Leylia looked now that she was no longer under Karla's power! It was hard to believe it had even been the same body. Her eyes were a clear grey blue and wide, a frown of concentration between her dark brows as she studied the swords over Slayn's head. It seemed she took her role as Slayn's apprentice seriously.  
  
His eyes fell on where her slender hands rested on Slayn's shoulders. Here, too, was another job she took seriously, he thought, and felt a terrible pang of jealousy that surprised him. Deedo was still not back, or she might be here, standing with her hands on his shoulders.  
  
Then again, she might not. Parn stifled a sigh, and mentally shook himself as Slayn asked another question:  
  
"Did you notice when, exactly, the swords started to do this? And the humming?" Parn shook his head.  
  
"No Slayn, I'm sorry," he replied. "I don't know when exactly. I just sort of discovered it one day, and at first didn't think anything of it." Parn paused and thought for a moment.  
  
"If it helps, I noticed it in King Fahn's sword first." He gestured to Soul Crusher with distaste. "Truth is, I don't go near that thing much."  
  
"I don't blame you," the wizard said, looking at the dark- sheathed sword with thin-lipped antipathy. "It's got a nasty feel to it."  
  
"You can say that again," Parn muttered.  
  
"So, can you tell us what's happening here?" Etoh asked, his hands clasped behind his back. Parn could not fail to notice that even Etoh looked different, his round face perpetually rosy and a bemused, perplexed smile always hovering around his eyes. No doubt Fianna's influence. He was a little less successful stifling another sigh.  
  
"Well," Slayn said, standing up like a marionette unfolding and brushing his hands against his robes. "I'm not sure, of course, but I do have my suspicions. Almost a month ago a mutual friend of ours pointed out to me something strange in the way the poles were aligning-"  
  
"*What* mutual friend?" Parn interrupted, sounding a little belligerent even to his own ears. He hated it when Slayn went into wizard mode, and felt much better about things when everything was spelled out clearly and simply. He wanted names, not obscure references.  
  
Slayn blinked mildly.  
  
"I don't think he's ready to be known quite yet. We sort of had to drag him out of retirement, you see."  
  
"Not quite true," Leylia said, clear eyes drifting from Slayn to Etoh to Parn. "This friend told Slayn that he was the best argument he could find for not remaining passive and told us he was ready to come out of retirement if Slayn was ready to become his apprentice."  
  
"Leylia." Slayn was blushing slightly, although there was a grin on his face. Parn nearly rolled his eyes. He knew he ought to be happy for his friend's happiness, and truly he was - but for the Goddess' sake, enough was enough.  
  
"So anyway," Parn said, "this mutual friend said something about poles misaligning."  
  
"Not quite misaligning," Slayn corrected. "Strange alignment. The way the stars fall in the third-" he caught sight of the truculent look on Parn's face, and said hastily, "Well, all the signs point to something strange going on, and I have some idea as to what it might be."  
  
"Well?" Parn prompted. Slayn blinked at him again, looking bemused.  
  
"He's upset, because Deedolito isn't back yet," Etoh said to Slayn in an aside. He gave his friend a stern look when Parn would have protested and said, in his mild voice, "She'll be back soon, you'll see."  
  
Parn sighed.  
  
"It isn't confirmed yet," Slayn continued, reaching for Leylia's hand, "but I think the Grey Witch is on the move again." He squeezed the girl's fingers as if for reassurance, and Parn could see a barely perceptible shudder run through her at the mention of the name.  
  
Parn himself felt something of a shudder. Not that creature again. Of all the foes they had come up against, she was the scariest..mostly because she was unpredictable and ineluctable. Even the Black Knight. Parn stopped thinking about it with an effort.  
  
"Is she still alive?" Etoh asked.  
  
"Oh, very much so," Slayn said grimly. "And still the self- proclaimed Steward of Lodoss."  
  
"I suppose it was too much to hope she'd just disappear and not reappear." It was Etoh's turn to heave a sigh. Then he brightened slightly. "Perhaps if she's resurfaced, we can finally rescue."  
  
There was a commotion out in the hall that interrupted him. They all turned to listen, and Parn reached for the Conqueror's sword.  
  
Several voices were raised in what sounded like a shouting match, and the sounds of scuffling reached them.  
  
"I tell ya, let me in already! He'll know me!" A belligerent voice reached them.  
  
"What in the.?" Etoh spoke all of their thoughts, and there came a pounding on the door.  
  
"Come," Parn called, his voice deep and resonant.  
  
Three soldiers came in, bearing a thin, wiry figure between them.  
  
"My Lord," one of them said, bowing to Parn, "This man has been causing quite a fuss. He claims to know you, Sir Parn, and has very. persistently insisted on seeing you."  
  
"What? But I-?" Parn took a close look at the scruffy man hanging by his arms between the solid mass of the soldiers. He found himself looking into a familiar thin face, marked by a long, beak-like nose and a thin, weasel smile. The hair was as matted and disheveled as ever, the clothes threadbare and worn.  
  
"Ho," said Woodchuck with a sly grin. "So much for my grand entrance. It's been a while, hasn't it?"  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
When the commotion had died down and they could hear themselves talk again, they sat down for a talk. Someone had the forethought to call for a bottle of wine, and they poured it around. Even Slayn and Leylia partook, allowing Etoh to pour a little into their glasses.  
  
"I don't believe it, you scruffy dog," Parn said, pounding the thief on the back. "How did you manage to escape?"  
  
Woodchuck took a large swallow of wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.  
  
"Ah," he said with satisfaction. "Some real wine. So much better than the swill I've been drinking on the road."  
  
"How long have you been traveling? What's happened? Tell us everything," Parn demanded.  
  
"Yes," Slayn echoed, more gravely. "I'm very concerned about what this may mean." Woodchuck held up his hand.  
  
"Hold on there, My Lord," Woodchuck said mockingly. "I'm getting to it. First of all, though, can't a man enjoy life for a little in peace?"  
  
"Actually, time may be of the essence," Slayn said. "Sorry to rush you, Wood, but-"  
  
"Alright, alright," the thief grumbled. "I get it."  
  
So he told them. Everything, and then some, embellishing when he felt the mood take him, but he conveyed the important things.  
  
".So you see," he concluded, "I thought you might appreciate a little warning that she's headed towards Valis wearing a new body. Not as pretty as yours, though." He leered at Leylia who stared back, unmoved. Slayn frowned at the thief.  
  
"But what does she *want*?" Parn asked, rubbing the fine stubble on his chin.  
  
"Excellent question," Etoh said. "It must have something to do with the swords."  
  
"Swords! Yes, I remember something about swords," Woodchuck said excitedly. Then he grew very serious for a moment.  
  
"That's the other thing," he said. "The Black Knight is with her."  
  
The room became so quiet Parn could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He felt his palms go cold and clammy.  
  
"What.was that?" he asked in a low voice. Woodchuck nodded.  
  
"You heard me. No joke. The Black Knight is with her, or at least he was last I checked. He looks terrible, too."  
  
"He should be dead," Slayn said, with a severe frown, confronted with something that defied common sense. "Was he a zombie?"  
  
"No more than usual," Woodchuck said wryly with a droll smile. Everyone was too serious to rise to his humor, and he dropped it quickly.  
  
"The Black Knight," Etoh said slowly, and shook his head. "Now there's a name I thought I would never hear again unless in a bard's tale. I don't see how he can still be alive, Woodchuck. Are you sure it was he?" Woodchuck gave him a look that was eloquently sardonic.  
  
"Let's put it this way," he said. "Do you know anyone else who's tall, emaciated, has a penchant for black, thinks looking like the Prince of Darkness is a fashion statement and answers to the name of Lord Ashuram? I certainly don't."  
  
"Alright," Etoh said meekly. "Just checking."  
  
"This is news of great import," Slayn said, and shared a troubled gaze with Leylia. "I knew the Witch was moving, perhaps even towards Valis, but this.." He frowned, rubbing the underside of his lip with a long, thin finger.  
  
"The swords," Parn said numbly, feeling strange. His gaze fell on the two swords, stood side by side, pulsating faintly. "He's coming for SoulCrusher." He was suddenly very sure of this, as sure as if it were written in some Book of Things To Come.  
  
"Ah," Slayn said, and the enlightened way he said it did not reassure Parn at all. "Very possibly."  
  
Parn's mind felt empty and distant. He had never really won the fight against Lord Ashuram, and coming as close as he had nearly cost him his life. Did this mean he was going to have to fight him again? What happened to the "happy ever after" ending that all heroes were entitled to? His wasn't working out very happily at all. He wished again, futilely, that Deedo were here with him now. If he was going to fight the Black Knight again, he wanted her at his back. Regardless of what else happened between them, she was still the best partner he'd ever had.  
  
"Just because the Black Knight is still alive doesn't mean he's spoiling for battle," Etoh said, taking pity on his friend and trying to comfort him.  
  
Parn snorted.  
  
"It's not over," he said. "It can't be. There was no clear victor." He looked at Etoh and shook his head sadly. "I don't think I can beat Ashuram, Etoh. He's very strong."  
  
"Things change," Slayn said, sounding sage and scholarly, "and as ever, you're not alone. Whatever happens, we're all together in this, as always."  
  
Parn smiled at Slayn, at all of his friends.  
  
"Yes," he said, and nodded. But he couldn't help feeling sadness even as he smiled. They weren't all together on this one. Parn directed his gaze out the window into the star lit night, as if somehow he could make Deedo appear in front of him. He hoped wherever she was, she was safe.  
  
And, there was one more they were missing that not even hoping would bring back. Parn shook his head. It still hurt too much to think about Ghim, and that was one sadness he would always carry.  
  
"I think that definitely calls for a toast," Woodchuck said, diving for the wine bottle.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
( Author note - Tanuki is one of those strange animals out of Japanese folklore that doesn't really have a translation. I've heard them called "Racoon dogs" in English. Hmm.. :P Anyway, they look more like badgers, and they're irrepressible tricksters. 


	20. Progression

Author's note: sorry for the extremely long delay between chapters! I'm losing steam….and happy to take ANYbody's suggestions if they have an idea for how this thing should end! You will definitely get credit as well.  
  
Anyway, welcome back to Lodoss. As usual, I don't own 'em (except for Veris and assorted others), I just am renting with the option to buy.  
  
***New character alert!***  
  
Chapter Twenty: Progression  
  
She stood poised in a shaft of sunlight, eyes closed, caught in a rare, effortless stillness between thought and action. She had inhaled deeply the lush green smell of the wood and held the breath within her as though it were precious. The stink of the city was finally out of her nose and she could feel the steady hum of the living energy all around her, just below her range of hearing, tingling across her skin and reverberating through her bones.  
  
By Sylph, it was good to be back, she thought fiercely, unwilling to relinquish the sweet breath she had taken.  
  
"Deedolito." The Elder's voice. Unwillingly, she let go of the breath in a long, silent sigh and opened her eyes slowly.  
  
"Arlac." She bowed deeply and formally, because this was one of the First, and he had lived a long, long time.  
  
Elves did not change much because time did not erode their youth as it did with the quickblooded races, Men and the lesser races of Orcs and monsters. Arlac was the same now as he was when Deedo was still new. The pale, delicate skin of his face, stretched thin across his jaw, throat and cheekbones, held no wrinkles nor even the finest of lines. He wore his dark hair close cropped save for the two long elflocks braided at his ears, the ends of which curled gently past his shoulders, and there was no hint of grey there. There was nothing to mark the passage of time across his visage, although the very stillness of his eyebrows, the steadiness of his eyes and thin mouth, gave the gravity of age to the otherwise youthful face. The eyes, Deedo thought to herself, revealed it the most. His eyes were a startling deep blue-indigo, and held facets of the ages in their depths. However, they were opaque and shuttered; he could see out, but none could see in. There was a great tranquility in those eyes, an icy calm that seemed to find nothing under the sun surprising or disturbing, as if such emotions no longer moved him.  
  
There were not many of First left. Deedo knew only of a handful, and many of them had nothing to do with the world outside the wood. Yet Arlac had not joined his kindred by retiring but remained Elder to the Sylvan Elves and mage without comparison.  
  
"Welcome home, Deedo," he said. His voice was deep and measured, resonant.  
  
"Thank you, my lord," she replied. "It is good to be back." Her relief to be out of Alania and back in the wood again must have colored her words, for Arlac's lips curled into an indulgent half-smile.  
  
"Human cities are works of quickblooded genius, but they do have a certain…odor," he said with some sympathy, and Deedo could not help but smile. She did not add that Alania stunk, although she wanted to.  
  
"Yes," she said merely.  
  
"Walk with me," Arlac invited, and she moved to pace beside him slowly under the cool shade of the old trees.  
  
"So tell me what goes on in the wider world?" he asked her. Deedo smiled. She knew he had many sources to keep him informed as to what happened beyond the wood, and she was one of them. Unlike most Elves who seemed to shun humans unless there was profit in the contact, Arlac was genuinely interested in them. She knew that he, like herself, realized that there was much to be gained in friendship, and much to be lost in enmity.  
  
Yet she quickly became serious again, for there was serious news to impart.  
  
"My lord," she said, "the demon sword has awoken again. The conqueror sword hums with energy, and the demon sword thirsts for battle. When I left, I could hear it even through the walls."  
  
Arlac nodded slowly.  
  
"Yes," he said. "The Grey Witch is on the move again, I fear." Deedo felt an old thrill of anxiety go through her at the mention of the name. The Grey Witch… She was perhaps one of the most dangerous forces to contend with in all of Lodoss, simply because she was so unpredictable.  
  
"The Grey Witch…" Deedo murmured, frowning.  
  
"Yes. And with her rides the Black Knight, Ashuram." Deedo blinked at Arlac, caught by complete surprise, to find him gazing back at her calmly. She bit off her first impulse to tell the Elder that there was no possible way Ashuram could still live, and said instead,  
  
"Elder, I saw him die. Under the cursed island." Arlac smiled thinly, but not with humor.  
  
"Apparently, this human is made of sterner stuff than most. Also, the Grey Witch revived him to suit her own purposes. I have little doubt that she means to try for the sword."  
  
"Parn," Deedo said under her breath before even thinking. She saw Arlac's gaze flicker sideways at her, but he tactfully avoided saying a word.  
  
"With them is some personage I have little knowledge of," Arlac continued, looking into the distance as though he could see them in front of his eyes. "Some half-elven healer. The Witch now wears her body, which is especially dangerous, for a half-elven body will have powers a human one does not."  
  
"Another healer," Deedo said, thinking of Leylia. What was Karla's attraction to Healers?  
  
"However, this may also be an advantage," Arlac mused, as if he were speaking his thoughts aloud. "For elves, by our very natures, can resist the possessive magic the Witch practices, and half-elves have some of the same innate ability. The Witch may soon find herself once more bodiless, despite her great power."  
  
Deedo shuddered involuntarily. The practice of using other bodies as hosts was horrific.  
  
"Why does the Witch want the sword?" she murmured, not expecting an answer.  
  
"To keep the struggle between the swords alive," Arlac replied, pursing his lips. "She is obsessed with the balance between good and evil, and the only way she knows to keep them in balance is to keep them perpetually at conflict. There is no salvation but through war. She believes peace can only mean stagnation and that only war can allow Lodoss to grow." Here he paused and shook his head. "A very limited view of both human and Elven ability. She is too old now to think beyond her own biases."  
  
He paused again, and then said very slowly,  
  
"I am shamed to call her Elven, and more so to name her one of the First. She does our kind no honor." *  
  
Deedo pressed her lips together and nodded grimly. The Witch was no tribute to the Elven race.  
  
"What must I do, Elder?" Deedo asked, suddenly feeling an urgent need to move, to do something against the approach of the menace the Witch brought.  
  
Arlac smiled again, a slight bend of the lips that did not reach his ancient eyes.  
  
"Much," he said. "I'll ask you to go back to Alania again soon. Be my eyes in that city. I will give you a message to give to the human mage Slayn, and it must come to his hands and no other." Deedo nodded, puzzled at what connection Arlac could have with Slayn, but it was none of her business.  
  
"Besides," Arlac said, and this time the amusement in his smile reached his eyes, "I think there is one in Alania who misses you more than he has ever missed anything before, and it will go badly with him if you do not return soon."  
  
Deedo tried hard, with questionable success, to keep from blushing. Yet Arlac offered no comment on her choice of lovers, passed no judgment on her. For that she was grateful. Instead, he said seriously,  
  
"Deedo, look out for the human knight. He is still very young in the world, and there is much he is still so ignorant of. Yet his is the conqueror's sword, and therefore he has a part to play against the Witch and the Black Knight. He will need you when the time comes again to confront Ashuram."  
  
Deedo nodded.  
  
"I understand, my lord." She replied. Parn. She suddenly missed him with a fierce pang that startled her. She doubted if he knew the import of what was happening all around him now, doubted he had understood why the humming of the conqueror's sword had so distracted her of late. She would need to explain.  
  
"The Lady be with you both," Arlac murmured, his eyes dark with knowledge of the future and hints of what was to come.  
  
* * * * *  
  
It was cold.  
  
The air was sharp with chill, and snow floated down in a slow, constant drift. Ashuram walked with the woolen coat he had bought wrapped tight around him, glad of its bulk, wishing fervently for gloves and boots that were made for winter. He had wrapped one of the blankets around him like a scarf beneath the coat, which held at bay the icy, creeping fingers of the wind down the back of his neck, but still he could not remember a winter ever having been as cold as it was there on Rimmer's pass.  
  
He could well believe the Witch now that someone had brought the winter back to slow them, for the cold was unnatural and ineluctable.  
  
The mare walked through the thin carpet of snow with her head down, not sparing any energy in belligerence. Her breaths came in great gusts of steam at either side of her head through nostrils red-rimmed and flared against the cold. Her ears were back stubbornly, and her pace was deliberate. On her back was the Witch, with her head down beneath the hood of her cloak. She had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and scarcely seemed to move.  
  
The wind was still gentle, but held the threat of becoming icy gusts. Already the scant trees beside the trail shook brittle leaves in the strengthening wind.  
  
It was nearly evening. They had been walking for two days, and the trail had been gradually growing steeper and steeper. Beneath the wind he could hear the distant roar of the Grimmrflod as it growled down the mountain in the sudden unseasonal winter overflow. The trail had begun close to the river, but had curved away to follow the mountain line; now the trail once more was curving back to meet the river. He was curious to see what the unnatural weather had made of the river. The Grimmrflod was always a monstrous stretch of water, but with the snowmelt he had no doubts it was swollen past its normal size. That would make any passage across it more than treacherous, and twice as expensive.  
  
The Witch had made no comments about the weather to explain what was causing it. In fact, she had said nary a word since they had left the small tavern on the other side of the entrance to the pass. She seemed deep in concentration with something far away, which suited him. The more distracted she was, the better his opportunity for revenge.  
  
When it began to grow too dark to see, they stopped for the evening in a little copse of trees close to the trail. They faced a long, cold night without much in the way of shelter, and the thought of sleeping on the cold ground was not appealing in the least. He took the sword the blacksmith had given him so long ago in Vesper, and went to cut firewood.  
  
He found a few fallen pieces of wood sheltered from the snow, but all the rest of it was wet; when he tried to light a fire, it smoked and sputtered and stunk, and would not catch. Determined, he tried again and again, growing frustrated. The kindling caught and flared and burnt out before the wet wood could even steam.  
  
"Igneo," the Witch pronounced a sharp, clear-edged word, and beneath his hands the wood caught fire with a controlled imploding sound, and began to burn warmly. He jumped back to avoid getting singed, darting her a dark and deadly look, but she had withdrawn within the shadows of her cloak and returned to silence.  
  
Sure the fire wasn't going to go out as soon as he turned his back, Ashuram went to take care of the mare. He removed her tack and saddle blankets, and the sweat-damp fur beneath steamed in the cold air. She had already shed her thick winter hair and stood shivering in the icy air. He rubbed the mare dry as best he could with the saddle blanket, taking his time. When he was through, he ran his hands down her legs to make sure she had no sore places, checked the bottoms of her hooves for stone bruises. If the mare went lame, they would be the worse off. Satisfied the horse was all to rights, Ashuram returned to sit by the fire.  
  
At first, he thought he was imagining it when he heard his name spoken over the roaring of the river. He thought it was a trick of sound, or some day dream. But no, as he listened, he heard it again:  
  
"Ashuram."  
  
The Black Knight looked around at the makeshift campsite. He had built a small fire, chopping wood with the sword the Vesper blacksmith had given him, and the smoky light cast dim, flickering shadows on the snow and the side of the mountain they sheltered against.  
  
In the shadows, he could see the pale face of the Healer, her body slumped as if she were asleep. Ashuram frowned. The Healer's eyes were closed, her head drifted to one side, as if the Witch had fallen asleep where she sat there on the saddle she had placed on the ground. Karla, once more asleep? Ashuram shook his head, unsure of what it portended but sure it was abnormal for the Grey Witch to sleep.  
  
As he was watching the Healer's face, he heard his name again.  
  
"Ashuram."  
  
That was Veris' voice, he thought. He had seen the Healer's lips move only slightly.  
  
"Healer?" If this was some strange trick of the Witch's, Ashuram thought, then she was crazier than Wagnard had been. It was too bizarre.  
  
"Yes. Ashuram, where are we?" He could not help the goosebumps that raised up on his arms or that the hair on the nape of his neck stood up. Her voice was coming out of her own body, but the body itself looked dead, completely unanimated as if there were no spirit housed inside. It was a bit like watching a corpse speak, he thought, and it was eerie.  
  
"On the trail through Rimmer's Pass."  
  
"Rimmer's Pass - towards Valis?"  
  
"The same."  
  
"I don't have much time before she wakes up again. The sword. It's the sword, I think. Touch the runes to the Witch and take the circlet."  
  
"What, now?"  
  
"Whenever you can-" her voice ended as if it had been cut, and he saw the Healer's body heave a sigh, and the Witch opened heavy-lidded purple eyes a bit groggily, blinked slowly and looked around.  
  
Ashuram waited for Karla to say something, to make a sign that it was all a trick or that she knew what was going on, but she said nothing. In fact, she hardly looked as though she even knew she had been asleep. Ashuram hid a thoughtful frown.  
  
"Do you know how much further it is to Valis?" He inquired.  
  
"Far enough." The Witch was not in the mood, it seemed, for talking. He pressed, trying to see some way into what was going on.  
  
"Do you suppose whoever has stopped the Spring will also be waiting for you in Valis?" The Witch did not even look at him. He felt the spell before she spoke, his mouth clamping together so fast he nearly bit his tongue. As it was his teeth clacked together hard enough that it was audible.  
  
"I like you better when you are silent."  
  
Ah ha. Ashuram nearly smiled. So there was a touchy subject. If he didn't know better, he would say that things were falling out from under the Witch. He wasn't sure how he knew, but some obstacle had gotten in her way and she was having trouble getting around it.  
  
He wondered who or what it was that was maneuvering to catch out the Grey Witch. So far it seemed to be working, yet he would not put his faith in someone else's machinations. When he saw his own chance, he would take it. Perhaps between his own scheming and the Witch's distraction, he would find a way to break free of her.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
* - Author's note: I don't know if I'm breaking Canon or not here, but I'm just playing around with some ideas I've been having in regards to this story. If you have criticism, I'll accept it.  
  
I would like to point out, though, in regards to some recent comments, that I have made it VERY clear from the beginning that I'm dealing with ROLW the first series, NOT LoC or any of the other offshoots. This deals with the ROLW orginial series, NOTHING ELSE. And I know I may have some things a bit mixed up; it's been awhile since I've worked on this. I do appreciate criticism as well as praise, and if your criticism is legit, I'll try to fix the problems. In fact, I want to know where the problems are, so I CAN fix them.  
  
Otherwise, I just want to have fun writing and I want you to have fun reading!  
  
End of speech. 


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